


Satin Stripes

by hamishholmess



Series: Satin Stripes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, BAMF John, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Captain John Watson, Composer Sherlock, John Watson is a Saint, John and Sherlock are grown men and fucking successful and hot as shit, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Marylebone Dance Company, Molly Hooper is a ballerina, Rugby, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock is a God, St Helens Rugby Team, Top John, Top Sherlock, and sleeves, ballet!lock, john has tattoos, rugby!john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 05:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 70,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2417018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamishholmess/pseuds/hamishholmess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is the star forward of the St Helens professional rugby team. He's in his late-twenties, a heartthrob, and best friends with Callum Everett, a teammate.</p><p>Molly Hooper is otherworldly on the stage. She does ballet at Marylebone Dance Company and is currently engaged to John's best mate, Callum Everett.</p><p>Sherlock Holmes is a gorgeous and divine creature of creative genius: he has single-handedly founded one of the most highly esteemed dance companies in England: Marylebone. He is a choreographer, composer and dancer. Molly is one of his dearest friends, and often stars in his performances.</p><p>John loses a bet and gets roped in to attending a show with Callum and Molly. When John's date leaves him high and dry, he quickly learns that ballet isn't what he believed it to be at all. We'll leave you to your own deductions.</p><p>Here's an <a href="http://grooveshark.com/#!/playlist/Satin+Stripes/101049074">in progress playlist</a> of all the incredible music inspiring this story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deduction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mollyloo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollyloo/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **de·duc·tion**  
>  dəˈdəkSH(ə)n/  
> noun  
> noun: deduction
> 
> 2.  
> the inference of particular instances by reference to a general law or principle.  
> "the detective must uncover the murderer by deduction from facts"  
> synonyms: conclusion, inference, supposition, hypothesis, assumption, presumption;

**[1]**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Callum, why the hell would I want to attend a ballet?”

Callum Everett poked out his bottom lip in a pout. “Come on, John. Don’t make me go alone. There will be men in tights, for chrissake.”

The men yanked open their forest green lockers, tossing in their soaked towels and dirt covered cleats. Watson was making quick business of shedding his practice gear, face red and tufts of hair sticking up where salty sweat and tackle after tackle had caused it to run amuck. John stood in his black shorts, scratching his ankle with his other foot. He laced his fingers together and tugged at the back of his neck. “Damnit, Everett. I love Molly. You know I do. But it’s such short notice.”

Callum weaseled in at the weakness. “Okay, let’s make a wager. London Broncos are playing against the Bulls this Saturday. If the Broncos win, you’re off. If Bradford wins, you have to come with us.”*

John considered as he peeled off his socks. He licked his lips as he reached for a new towel. “Alright. Yeah.” Callum pumped a fist into the air, and as John headed towards the showers in nothing but his pants, Everett popped a sweat drenched towel across John’s left ass cheek. With a hiss and a middle finger, John turned the corner. “You ungrateful prick!”

 

 

-

The match was on the telly. About a third of the team sat in various places in John’s living room. “Alright, boys. I’ve got Imperial Stout, Guinness, Jameson, and the means to make hot toddies. Pick your poison.”

John was a fairly average looking man. He had perpetually disheveled blonde hair that paired nicely with blue eyes, varying from shallow ocean to midnight, depending on his mood. They were kind eyes, tinted with the ferocity of a man who has seen and survived a life that had left much wanting. His nose was sharp and symmetrical and just below, a mouth framed in laughter lines. He was amenable, charming and too sharp tongued for his own good most days. Women adored him, men befriended him, and he knew no strangers.

“Better double up that whiskey shot of yours, Watson. It’s gonna be a rough afternoon for you. I hope you have a date lined up.” Callum plucked a Stout from the plastic band and collapsed onto the gray houndstooth couch. He kicked off his trainers and began to prop his feet onto the coffee table.

“I always double my whiskey shot, Everett. And get your feet off my table. Molly would be ashamed.”

 

 

-

John tugged another tie out of his drawer and laced it under the collar of his pale blue button-up. He sighed in frustration. Katherine had called him twenty minutes earlier. Conveniently enough, she had fallen ill in the last two hours. John wasn’t surprised; he never kept a woman too long. His career path wasn’t a traditional one. Women liked a man who is, or wanted soon to be, settled, well off, and easily accessible; John really only qualified in category two. Sometimes the lifestyle is enough to keep a girl for a few months, especially if he was off season, but overall he had become accustomed to short and sweet pairings. He preferred a life of travel, rowdy nights and his friends. So much more of the world had been seen that way. There were few things better than traveling through the night by bus, teammates passed out in various awkward positions, good music leaking through headphones as the lights of different cities whirred past in neon lines. Or the first time he stepped onto a new field, feeling his boots dig into the well-kept grass, the rush of adrenaline that swept through every muscle of his body. John was yet to meet someone that had even remotely convinced him a settled life in London would be better.

He decided on a navy tie, assuming it was safe with his cool gray suit. Formal attire wasn’t his greatest strength. He was running a wax-covered palm through his hair when his doorbell rang.

The oak door pulled open and a stunning brunette held her own in the frame. She was taller this evening, wearing a moderate heel, her hair pulled up in a tumbling mass of curls. She had gentle, brown eyes and thin lips pulled into a warm smile.

“Molly. You look lovely.”

“Hello, John,” Molly grinned. “So glad you could make it tonight.”

Callum trotted up the stairs, resting his freshly-shaven chin on Molly’s shoulder. “Yes, we are, in fact. Particularly me!”

Molly’s brown eyes rolled a bit and she let out a mildly frustrated laugh. “Is Katherine ready?” Her eyes were sparkling. John was always amazed by Molly Hooper, but tonight, by one thing in particular:  that Callum told Molly about every woman John dated and Molly remembered every single one, in spectacular detail. He supposed he could only blame her fantastic character. John realized he probably ought to take a few lessons from her. He could never remember who had a dog and who taught kindergarten. He mostly remembered their favorite recreational activities after sunset.

“No, no she isn’t, actually. She won’t be joining us this evening.”

Callum’s smile faltered, followed by a look of guilt. “John, if you don’t want to come, we’ll be perfectly fine, really, don’t feel like you have to –“

John raised his hand and grinned. “Really. I said I’d come, I want to come, so if you don’t mind a third wheel, I believe I’m seeing a ballet for the first time tonight.”

“We’d love to have another date,” Molly offered, in her most seductive voice. She blushed immediately, giggled and Callum leaned in to kiss her cheek.

“Well damn, Watson, guess we’re a threesome tonight. You know Molly. Wild one.”

John winked, snagged his gloves off the small table in the foyer, and shut the door with a click. The trio flagged down a cab and shot off in the dark towards the heart of London.

 

 

-

Molly exited the cab with ease. She was one hell of a woman, and John loved her for Callum. She was a fascinating combination of grace and clumsiness, innocence and fervor. Her silver heels clacked on the sidewalk as she led the way to Marylebone, peering over her right shawl-covered shoulder. The grin plastered across her face warmed John’s heart. It honestly had not mattered either way whether he won the wager and came tonight, but he knew it would please Molly, and that had been more than enough to convince him to follow through. Callum walked next to him, one step for John’s every two. Everett’s green eyes watched his fiancé with untouched adoration. John could tell he was tracing the straps of Molly’s pewter colored dress, resting on her shoulders in particular, before following down to admire her calves. John looked away and gave Callum the privacy. Oddly enough, being with them never made John feel lonely. Katherine didn’t appreciate the pair of them the way John did. She didn’t listen to Molly when she spoke, didn’t look Callum in the eye when he tried to explain a play, or the rules of rugby. She was fun, but she wasn’t a Molly. Sometimes John wondered if anyone would see him settled. He liked being the good time; loved it, in fact. The thought of him planting roots somewhere and being with one person for an extended period of time was a curious one. He mulled it over as he entered through the glass doors of the venue. Marble floors covered the expanse of the interior, silver fixtures and a large, crystal chandelier setting off prisms across the walls and John’s gray suit. It was luxurious in an understated way, and John chuckled at the absolute contradiction of the thought.

“Okay, through the right set of doors, up the stairs. We’ve got box seats. I’m going to see if I can find Sherlock and wish him luck! I’ll see you in just a few.” Molly planted a kiss on Callum’s mouth, and headed for another door. John looked at Callum; they both shrugged their shoulders and headed through the proper set of doors. The stairs were covered in a rich, red, velvet carpet. John felt guilty for wearing shoes. At least he had shined them up, even if he had done a half ass job of it. After three sets of stairs, the boys broke into a hall way, each set of box seats labeled from the outside. Their tickets read BX221A, 221B, 221C, 221D.

“Bingo!” Callum shot an index finger two doors down. 

“So, Sherlock? Isn’t he the one that owns this venue?”

Callum nodded, eyes scanning the crowd. He awkwardly pulled out the binoculars and put them to his eyes. “Wow. These things are wicked. I can literally see the panels on the stage.”

“Why would Molly go see the owner before the show?”

“No, no. Sherlock’s like this, insane creative genius. He owns the venue, but he also owns the dance company. And writes the music for every show.”

“What? What the fuck? That’s a lot of work, isn’t it?”

“John Watson. Keep that mouth clean in my sanctuary. And yes, it’s an immense amount of work. Now shush, the curtain’s going up soon.”

“Sorry, Mols. Just slipped out.”

Molly turned to wink as she settled in between him and Callum. “These are the best seats in the house.”

“How did you get them?”

“Employee perk.”

Ah. John had only seen Molly dance a handful of occasions, mostly when they were right out of Uni. She had been auditioning for company after company. Apparently, they didn’t like her appearance. She wasn’t “elegant” enough, but John had long ago decided otherwise. Elegant to other companies had been tiny, angular, and lacking in any decipherable, unique physical qualities. Molly was none of those things; in fact, she was a warm contradiction to each of them. Molly was thin, but lean and strong. She had a fantastic body; John knew he could admit it without causing suspicions. Her shoulders were stunning and her legs spoke bravely of the hours spent slaving away in the studio. There was nothing sharp to her. Molly was soft and kind and warm: she had a buttoned nose and rich, brown eyes and her words were never hard. Molly had been dancing with Marylebone for nearly two years now, and as far as he could tell, she loved it. She stood straighter, spoke in a way that filled a room when needed, carried her chin to face others everywhere she walked. If this Sherlock could channel confidence in Molly, he was a friend of John’s.

The lights dimmed and the curtain moved back to reveal a stage colored in burgundy light. John peered into his binoculars and found the orchestra. He was curious what Mr. Holmes looked like. After a few moments, a black haired woman, thin and curved, raven hair pinned up and red paint on her lips, took the stand at the front of the orchestra. She wore a suit, but it was a sinful fit: double breasted buttons down to her slender waist, silver embroidery down the front, and two elegant coattails falling behind. She was stunning in a very traditional way.

“Irene Adler.” Molly whispered into his ear. He could hear the laughter Molly was biting back. She knew John found Irene attractive, but then, John thought, Molly probably knew quite a few, if not most people, found Irene Adler attractive. “She’s not the most humble of women.” John could tell. And he wouldn’t mind testing that hypothesis.

“Mmm,” was all John gave to acknowledge her statement. He was confused. Didn’t Sherlock compose the music? Why didn’t he conduct the orchestra?

Then a silhouette took the stage. It was male; tall, lean, and defined. Confident and swift, he moved like a river. John’s eyebrows rose a bit on his forehead. Irene swept her arms in a grand gesture, and strings began. John could hear the cello in particular. It had always been one of his favorites. He watched Irene, as her jaw clenched and her delicate hands instructed hundreds with an insane ferocity. He moved his eyes back to the stage. The silhouette had become a shadow to the music. Every swell of the strings, he moved after them, tugging at the last tiny traces of each note. He moved out of the darkness and into the burgundy lighting. John felt his breath halt in his chest.

“John Watson, meet Sherlock Holmes.” Molly’s voice was reserved, filled with a beautiful softness and admiration. “He also dances.”

 

 

-

John could feel the eagerness nestling in his bones, waiting for Sherlock to step out again. Finally, in pure white light, Sherlock came back to the stage. He was dressed in black and white, his feet bare. John could see each muscle strain and relax under his tight clad legs, his brown, cropped hair still for now. The lighting played games on John’s eyes: Sherlock’s jaw was strong and smooth, his cheekbones high and sharp under a set of pale eyes. They closed as he rested on his knees and folded his chest down, extending his arms straight out in front of him, palms down on the floor.

A single violin rang out. Sherlock’s fingers curled as if he were clawing at the floor, trying to dig a hole through the stage. Then his arms spread wide apart before one hand found its way into his own head of hair. Then he was pulling himself over and back, shoulder blades flat against the ground and knees still folded underneath him. John watched in fascination as Sherlock arched his back, rising to his knees and extending one hand tall and strong above him. John couldn’t help watching the muscles as they tensed; every move was so deliberate and full of undeniable intention. Three other violins joined in, harmonizing with the first, and then Sherlock was on his feet, walking, running? Pacing, John decided, from one end of the stage to the next. A quiet “huh” escaped from John’s lips. Sherlock stilled in the center of the stage and the violins dropped to a beautiful whisper. Irene’s eyes were closed, her chin high as her hands moved to and from the center of her chest. Sherlock began to sway slowly side to side, like a pendulum. His left hand began to tick, as if possessed by a twitch or tremor. A cello joined the violin, a deep reverberating sound. Sherlock’s jaw jerked up and to the right, suddenly, frantically, as a look of epiphany bloomed across his face. John admired the perfect “oh” of Sherlock’s lips. And then he lept across the stage, landing silently on his feet and folding to the floor in one, fluid movement. One knee tucked in close to his heaving chest, his other leg extended in a languid fashion. He rolled to his side, unfurling his leg, extending his arms above his head, and John was able to study the entire length of him. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. One of Sherlock’s hands began to grip at his chest, tugging his white shirt taut across his abdomen, and suddenly John felt very hot. The hand made its way down to his thigh, digging into his flesh. His back arched against the floor, and his chin tilted back; the body language was personified lust. John tugged at his tie and set his binoculars down. Molly peered over at him, a look of concern on her face.

“John, are you alright? What can I get you?”

“I’m fine, Molly. Just warm. Excuse me.”

He stepped out, feeling Callum’s eyes on his back, and trotted down the stairs. John passed through the glass doors and out into the night, taking a few deep breaths. The shocking cold stifled the heat in his lungs.

Okay. Okay. That was painfully new. He ran a hand through his hair and rested his other on his hip, pacing on the damp sidewalk. Cabbies and motorbikes whirred by, leaves rushing onto the pavement in tiny twisters.

He saw naked men all the time. There were twenty-two of them on his damned rugby team, and they were not ones to shy away from physical touch – they could all give and take a good spank, shared shampoo in the showers, and never withheld commentary when one of them was looking particularly spot on. They were completely comfortable. John had seen as much of Callum as Molly had, even if it hadn’t been in the same context.

So why did this man turn John’s blood into magma? He was a sexual man. He acknowledged and tended to his needs. He credited himself to being a fierce lover, a generous one, too, and got off on getting others off. All John could think of was being between Sherlock’s thighs… being the cause of that heaving chest, that perfectly arched back on his mattress back at the flat, the sweat on his hot flesh. Ah, fuck. Twenty-eight years and finally indulging in the male form? Nearly fifteen of them had been infused with strong, attractive and talented men. Why now? Why Sherlock Holmes?

He felt a firm hand on his shoulder. Callum. “Alright there, John?”

John turned to face him, knowing he would be incapable of disguising or keeping anything from Callum. They were open books for one another. Callum’s eyes widened. John felt the heat cross his cheeks and he dropped his chin; he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“Shit.” Callum always hit the nail on the head.

“You’re telling me.” John dug his hands deep into his pockets.

Molly, eyebrows quivering with worry, bustled through the door.

“John?” 

“I think he’s just tired. We’ve had a rough week of practice. Probably just dehydrated.” Molly glared at Callum and raised a disbelieving eyebrow. Right she was. She knew of all the teammates, John was the doctor and one to diagnose. She wasn’t an idiot. Molly was perceptive enough to know there was something else hiding behind John’s eyes. And maybe Callum would mention it later when the two crawled into bed together, but John didn’t care. He knew no matter what was said, it would be fine. It was all fine. Right now, he didn’t want to think about it.

“Shall we grab a drink?”

“But you just said he was de-“

“John can have water. I need a damned pint.”

Molly nodded, stepped to the curb, and with a sassy wink, shrugged her bare shoulder out of her silk shawl. A cabbie screamed to a halt and Callum rolled his eyes.

 

 

-

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. He flicked on the light to the studio and dropped his bag by the door, along with the damp towel that clung to his neck. He was still in performance attire when he connected his iPod to the surround sound. He stood, frozen, for what seemed like ages, and then he began again. His right foot moved first, dominant side forward. He allowed the music to consume him, another case to solve, another equation to balance, another night to bring to equilibrium.

He sat in a trembling pile on the floor. Sherlock found the clock, ticking menacingly on the wall. It was four AM.

 

 

-

“So what did you think of the show, John?”

Callum stole a careful glance in his direction, debating whether or not he needed to run an interference. John grinned, feeling safe in his skin again.

“I can see why you like him, Molly. Does he make you dance that way? I’d say Callum’s a fan, too, if he does.”

Molly blushed and dropped eye contact with John. He immediately regretted his comment. Of course Molly didn’t dance that way, at least not on a stage. She had immeasurable class and was a very reserved woman. While he knew of how _fun_ she could be from Callum’s recollections of him and Molly in their early years, she would never let on to her darker side in public. She shook her head. “He never makes me do anything I’m not comfortable with. He knows me quite well, actually.”

“I know, Mols, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I was only teasing. The show was stunning, as is Sherlock’s dancing.”

Molly smiled, seeming a bit more pleased with herself.

“Do you know why it’s called _Deduction_?” John thought surely the “d” should have been an “s,” but hey. What did he know? He was a rugby forward, not a hot, writhing, mass of gorgeous muscle.

Molly nodded. “He has several hobbies.”

John laughed. “Well, yeah.”

“No. I mean other hobbies.”

John looked at her in disbelief. “Other hobbies? More than owning a dance company, composing music, and dancing?”

“Well, yeah… he doesn’t have many friends, you see, or family, so he stays quite busy with other things.” John found that hard to believe. Sherlock didn’t seem particularly off-putting. Why didn’t he have friends? “He solves cases for NSY. Sometimes. If he’s available.”

John choked on his soda, his straw grabbing at the opportunity to stab him in the gum. “What? New Scotland Yard? Is that even _possible_?” He stared at Molly incredulously. She would never create something so absurd, but would Sherlock?

“I mean, I suppose it is. I’ve met the Detective Inspector. Lestrade is his name. Greg Lestrade.” Callum shot her a look. “He only came by to pick up a case file from Sherlock. It’s sort of amazing, really, to listen to the two of them talk. It’s like another language. Well. At least when Sherlock talks.”

John didn’t understand. “Okay. So what does that have to do with the show?”

“That’s what he does. He makes deductions and solves the dead-end cases. The show represents his process on a case. He gets a little manic, actually. Like he exists entirely inside himself. Doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep. He’s completely consumed by the case until he solves it. He’s described it another way, but. Well…”

“No wonder he doesn’t have any friends.”

“Callum, that’s ugly. And he’s _my_ friend.”

John took another sip of his soda, face contemplative. “That’s brilliant.”

Molly turned her head in surprise. Callum coughed into his beer.

“A dancing detective.”

 

 

-

Sherlock turned the key in the deadbolt. He pushed his door open and slung his bag onto the table, dropping his keys into a small, ceramic dish. He pulled the hood away from his face and examined the flat. His coordinator was a kind man; he had arranged this living space for Sherlock to have when rehearsals, practices and shows were just too close together for comfort, and while the area was lovely, Sherlock disliked the furbished flat. It was modern. Too modern. Too shiny. Too geometric. Too neutral. “Home” or “comfortable” did not exist in this flat’s vocabulary.

Sherlock gently toed off his trainers; his feet were hurting tonight…this morning? He glanced at his watch. 4:13 a.m. Holmes padded into the stainless, soulless, steel kitchen and put on a stainless, soulless kettle. While he waited for the water to boil, he stepped into the bathroom, just down the hall from the kitchen, running hot water out of the faucet. He sat on the edge, rolling up the ends of his tights, and dipped his toes into the hot, shallow water. They burned, blisters already forming on the balls of his feet. He grabbed a bar of soap and carefully washed. The kettle screamed as he was patting his feet dry.

Sherlock plugged the tub, white on the outside and navy on the inside, and let the water run as he made himself a hot cuppa.

The tights and hooded sweatshirt hit the solid gray rug on the floor and Sherlock eased into the steaming water. His tired arms stretched around the side of the tub, cup of chamomile in one hand, and he let his skull clunk against the cold, black tile of the wall. He sighed. Tomorrow he would do it all over again. A small smile took his mouth.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The London Broncos and Bradford Bulls are teams associated with the RFL (Rugby Football League).  
> John and Callum play for St Helens.


	2. Sort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **sort**  
>  sôrt  
> verb
> 
> 2.  
> resolve (a problem or difficulty).  
> synonyms: resolve, settle, solve, fix, work out, straighten out, deal with, put right, set right, rectify

[2]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

John woke to a screaming alarm. He groaned and rolled over to hit snooze. John knew they were at the peak of their season, and that being perfectly fit was more important now than any other time of the year, but he really detested early morning workouts.

He rolled flat onto his back and stared at the darkness where his ceiling should be. He wiped the sleep from his eyes with his ring finger and let his hand slap back to the mattress. His eyes fluttered closed again as he mulled over the tights-and-lights infused dreams he had been having over the course of the week. John allowed the gears of his head to slowly crank themselves into motion. He listened to the occasional cab whirring past outside his window, knowing that few others were awake this early in the birth of the day. He peered back at his clock. 4:32 am. With a huff of breath, he kicked the covers off and rolled out of bed, padding into the bathroom, where cold, ceramic tile greeted him.

 

-

Sherlock collapsed into the warm, unmade bed, relishing the feeling of soft sheets against his naked skin. He tucked a pillow into the curve of his neck and reached out to pluck the metal chain of his bedside lamp. The alarm mocked him: 4:32 am. Three hours of sleep would have to be sufficient.

 

-

John slipped his practice bag over his shoulder and arranged the strap across his chest. He made for the door, grabbing his helmet and keys on the way out. It was still the color of midnight on the steps of his apartment, the lampposts casting eerie shadows along the sidewalk. He mounted his Triumph, giving a strong kick to the start and buckled his helmet at the chin strap. The bike idled with a low growl before she roared to life as John gripped the accelerator. His chest dipped to meet the handle bars as he veered out into the street.

 

-

“Watson?”

Callum pushed open the locker room doors, already pulling out his boots from his unzipped bag. He rounded the first line of lockers to find John panting on a bench, earbuds wedged deep into his ears, head moving in a rhythm as he unlaced his trainers. Callum realized that John had already hit the weight room that morning.

He tugged a headphone from John’s ear, and the blonde jerked his head up, eyes narrowed and posture tensed. Callum felt a tiny hint of guilt in the pit of his stomach. He knew John didn’t do well with the physically unexpected. He hated surprises.

Callum smiled sheepishly, eyebrows moving upward on his face in apology. He knew something was up with John – he had been was too internalized this last week. He’d come in two hours early for practice and would stay another three after he dismissed the rest of the team. Callum had left Saturday night alone, knowing it would spark a complicated conversation John may still be working through. Callum knew John would be ready when he arrived to practice fifteen minutes before rather than ninety, or when John offered to visit the pub not too far from the field for a pint after practice.

“Everett, you scared the piss out of me. You ought to know better by now.” John’s eyes were a little clearer today, his spirit finding its way back. Callum always feared foggy eyes. It had been nearly two years since he had last seen them, and had no intention of allowing their return.

“Sorry, mate. Was calling you, but you couldn’t hear me. I figured a hovering body _might_ be a little more uncomfortable. And I didn’t much feel like getting punched in the bollocks before practice even begins.”

John chuckled a bit at that, pulling on taller socks. His cheeks were flushed, sweat lining his brow and dampening his hair.

“Already at it, huh?” Callum sat next to him, slipping on his boots and lacing them snugly.

“Yeah. Helps me clear my head a bit.”

“Figured. Everything alright?”

John only nodded, tying the double knot of his second boot. Callum left it at that, knowing the morning workout had done little for John. The doors burst open and the boys’ voices bellowed cheerfully, carrying through the locker room. Rhys Rex gave Callum a strong clap on the shoulder.

“Morning Callum, John,” Rhys’ blue eyes twinkled mischievously. “Shall we go kick some ass?”

 

-

“Rhys, Egan, switch to three-quarters and fullback so Jasper can work on his tackles,” John commanded from across the field. He walked briskly, hands resting on his hips, panting from running drill after drill. Sweat was pouring from every one of the boys’ brows. Rhys and Egan obeyed, quickly trotting across the damp grass.

John wiped his brow, feeling them furrow deeper in frustration. The men waited, expectant, for John to make his next call. They were already an hour over designated end time, but the team knew better than to argue. A John this befuddled was a force to be reckoned with, and they wanted him at ease. Their match against the Broncos was only days away and something had to give; John had to loosen up or the boys needed to step up. They were willing do to their share if it meant John would just fucking relax.

“Cap,” Egan said hesitantly, “Rhys and I were chatting last night, and we… well, we came up with a new play. We don’t have to use it of course, but it’ll help Jasper get familiar with the forwards.” Egan lifted his chin a bit, trying to portray a bit of confidence, and his long, blonde hair shifted around his shoulders, pushed back from his face in a headband. His hazel eyes revealed a small amount of frustration.

“Alright. Let’s see, then. Rhys, set it up.” John trotted to the sideline to properly watch, arms crossed and closed off. Callum began to bite at his cuticles, uneasy with John’s demeanor. Egan and Rhys were describing the play with grand, sweeping gestures, Rhys’ red-tipped mohawk flouncing as he spoke. Jasper nodded in response, clearly trying to keep up with Rhys’ million-kilometer-an-hour way of talking. Callum bit hard at a nail, debating on whether or not to confront his captain.

He casually strolled over to the touch line, turning his side to bump his shoulder into John’s. John barely moved, cemented to the earth like stone, raising one eyebrow. Callum knew it was John’s way of giving him permission to proceed, though it made him no less anxious about doing so.

“You’re overthinking it, mate.” He felt John tense next to him, turning his shoulders toward the 22 metre area. Callum spoke in a whisper as he turned his back to the pitch and closer to John’s ear. “It’s all fine, John. Truly. Now put this to bed and be with us.” John faced Callum with a look of guilt overtaking his features. He gave one stern nod and exhaled the stale air from his lungs.

“Ready, Cap?” Egan and Rhys stood patiently awaiting their captain’s orders.

John smiled, the first one in nearly three hours. “When you are, boys.”

 

-

Molly heard the door click shut and the sound of metal hitting wood.

“Mols, it smells amazing in here. Christ.” Callum appeared in kitchen, covered in dirt, grass and sweat. He smelled of earth and boy, and Molly, despite her previous irritation of him being an hour and a half late, _thank you very much_ , smiled at him. Callum sat his bag down in the sitting room, and strolled up to her at the stove. She felt the heat pouring from his body as he bent down to kiss her lovingly where her neck and shoulder met.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, darling.” He murmured against her skin. Molly’s stomach made a pleasant dip. “John’s… I don’t know.” She felt Callum pull away, his feet moving across the kitchen. Molly turned, wiping her hands on a dish towel, and read the worry in her fiancé’s face.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Though he was truly filthy, she caressed his sweat stained cheek, brown eyes huge on her face.

“I haven’t seen him this distracted since Harry.” Molly felt her lips part in shock, remembering that John Watson all too well. God, had it already been that long? She shivered.

Callum’s thick eyebrows were knit with worry, and he chewed on his bottom lip. Molly felt a warm stirring in her chest at the sight of the precious gap between his two front teeth. She reached out for his right hand and grabbed it firmly in hers, turning it over to inspect the nails. They were destroyed.

“You are quite nervous. Goodness. That bad?”

Callum only nodded, eyes glazed over in thought.

“When did it start?”

He glanced into Molly’s eyes, and the pieces clicked together. She squeezed his hand gently. “Don’t fret, Callum. He’ll sort through it. He’s got you.”

“Yeah.” She felt him slipping farther away from her, burying himself in worry and responsibility, as he always did.

“Hey,” she whispered. Callum looked up at her through sad eyes, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You are an amazing man, Callum, and an amazing friend. He _will_ sort through it. If you could pull him out after Harry, your presence can do anything.” She leaned forward, draping an arm around his damp jersey, and touched her forehead to his. “I promise.” She brushed her hands through his wavy brown hair, curling from the wet at the nape of his neck, and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. “Shower up. Dinner’s nearly ready.”

 

-

Sherlock dipped his feet into the cold river water as the sun shone down on his back. He knew this would be the last day he would be able to savor in the upcoming weeks. He hummed and the muscles of his legs flinched as the icy water dipped over his toes. Autumn was here, and soon the water would be much too cool to touch.

His mind was whirring through a meters long to-do list. The next show was beginning, and the indefinite future was filled with composing, auditions, choreography, and rehearsal after rehearsal. It was the best and worst time of year – too busy to think, and too busy to think. He watched the sunlight reflecting off the wet rock, tiny starbursts against the earth tones, and witnessed a red leaf drift down until it met the water. The river was kind – it would carry it gently it for a while before submerging it into absolute chaos.

Sherlock loved being home. His proper home. He enjoyed the city, but the older he got, the harder he found it to think through the London fog. He thought it aged him, his need for quiet and real darkness at night. He stretched and wriggled his toes, breathing in the earthy scent of dirt and water. The river was high; the rain had been heavy the past week and Sherlock’s usual perch had been swallowed up by white, frothy stream.

He wrote his best music here, deafened by the rush of liquid at his feet and nothing else. The sun warmed his pale skin, and while he knew most people believed him to be inhuman, he too relished in sticky sweat and a light breeze and the ability to succumb to being present, wholly, in a moment.

Sherlock reached back and dug his mobile out of his coat pocket.

 

**Only contact for truly time sensitive and imperative cases. SH**   
_That time of year, huh?_   
**As always, Lestrade. SH**   
_Understood._   
**My thanks. SH**

 

He plucked a small snail from its home on the rock and held it in his palm. Sherlock watched the creature, waiting for the moment it was calm enough to move again.

 

-

John toweled off and slipped into his pants. He heard a throat clearing just as he stretched his t-shirt over his head. He glanced to the source of the noise, already knowing the owner it belonged to.

“Fancy seeing you here. I really ought not ever hand out a key copy.”

“John. Don’t be like that.”

“Like what? I’m not being anything different than what I ordinarily am.” He raised an eyebrow, one that hinted a good bit at irritation, waiting for the next comment to leave her lips. She said nothing.

“Feeling better, then?” He quipped. God, his mood _was_ foul.                   

“Much.” The answer was given too quickly. John rolled his eyes.

“Come off it, Katherine. What do you want?”

The redhead strolled forward, bare feet barely making a sound against the hardwood floors of his room. Her hair was down and curled, John’s absolute favorite on her, and black eyeliner traced the top of her lids, causing her green eyes to radiate. “For you to take me out, show me off, bring me home…” Her mouth was skimming his ear now, breath ghosting across his neck. “And wreck me.” She laced her hand through the hair at the nape of his neck and gave a playful tug. John chuckled.

“Is that so?” He was quickly beginning to remember why he kept Katherine around.

She bit at his throat, her hand tracing down the front of his t-shirt. “Mmm. God, yes, John. I’ve missed you.”

“You are a wanton thing,” John whispered, kissing her plainly on her lips. “I suppose I can fulfill that request. Don’t think I’ve forgiven you, though, because I most certainly have not. And don’t plan to.”

“We’ll just see about that.” She licked the shell of John’s ear and laughed as he picked her up by the thighs and carried her into his sitting room.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured from underneath him, sprawled out on the sofa.

He bit the skin below her navel, eliciting a sharp gasp from her mouth.

“Shut up.”

 

-

“You weren’t sick.” It was a statement, not a question.

“No,” she replied honestly, tracing patterns across John’s abdomen.

“Why did you lie?” He felt anger pooling in the back of his mind, and tried to dismiss it.

“Because I didn’t want to go,” she snapped. John mulled over the response. A little defensive, in his opinion.

“Prior obligations?” He could hear the snarl making itself known in his voice.

Katherine yanked her head from where it had been resting on his shoulder and sat up. “What the hell does that mean, John?” Yep. Definitely defensive.

“Family dinner? Late meeting at work?” He was most certainly angry now.

“Oh, piss off, John. Don’t make me feel guilty because I didn’t want to watch a bunch of queers in—“

“Get out,” John growled.

Katherine’s mouth dropped open in shock. Her eyes quickly flooded with fury, though, and she intended to share it with the class. John didn’t give a damn.

“You know how important these things are to Molly. You _know_. Or then again, no, actually, you don’t, which is equally a problem. Hand over the key, please.”

She gave a dark, bitter chuckle in response. “How long have you been pining over your best mate’s fiancée, John? That’s sick. Does he know? Do all three of you mutually benefit—“

John rolled out of bed and hastily put on his clothes. “You’re an idiot.” He plucked the spare key from the table and walked out into the kitchen.

Katherine started to yell, but John put on the kettle and ignored her. He pulled a single mug from the cabinet and dropped in a bag of chamomile. She stormed from the room, hair debauched and eyeliner smeared from where John had literally fucked her to tears not half an hour before. He gave a smug smile as he admired his handiwork on her neck.

“Fuck you, John. You’re such a prick.” She grabbed her heels from the foyer, and John gave her a two-fingered salute, though she only deserved one, certainly, as she slammed the door behind her.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John traded in his Bonneville for a Scrambler (motorbike).  
>  _touch-line_ is a rugby term, similar to a side line and marks out of bounds.  
>  three-quarters and fullback are positions of players, two of the seven "backs" positions on the team.


	3. Unearth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **un·earth**  
>  ˌənˈərTH/  
> verb
> 
> discover (something hidden, lost, or kept secret) by investigation or searching.  
> "they have done all they can to unearth the truth"  
> synonyms: discover, uncover, find, come across, stumble upon, hit on, bring to light, expose, turn up, hunt out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, a LITTLE more John _and_ Sherlock. I know it's taking ages to get them properly acquainted, but please have faith! It will all be worth it, I promise! 
> 
> I was curious if you guys would be interested in two things:  
> [1] Do you want images of actors/actresses that I feel identify or look similar to my characters that are not of BBC origin?  
> [2] Any interest in posting songs that correlate to particular chapters?
> 
> As always, please leave your gorgeous thoughts! I love picking your brains, and I **love** it when you leave comments! They are the best gift of all! 
> 
> You're wonderful! Now go, read, be merry!  
> XoX, hamishh

[3]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Sherlock, honestly. If you want a new performance in less than two months, you needed to have music to me yesterday.” The brunette crossed her arms, booted foot tapping against the light-lined walkway of the theater.

“I’m in no mood for your mouth today, Irene. I have far too much to get done. Can you do it, or not?” Sherlock fooled with the wiring to the sound system on the stage. Irene Adler gave a huff in complaint, sighed dramatically, and dropped her arms by her side in defeat.

“Fine. When can you have the sheet music to me?”

“Tomorrow evening. I just need tonight to clean up the edges a bit.”

“Yes, well. Six pm. At Angelo’s.”

“You know I don’t have time—”

“I also know you _never_ go out any more. You need a drink or seven. Lighten up, Holmes. I’ll see you then.” With a turn of her hips, she was walking up the aisle and out the double doors.

Molly stepped onto the stage dressed in practice garb: a loose gray sweatshirt and pale pink tights. “You wanted to see me, Sherlock?”

“Molly, hi. Yes! I have a proposal for you. You most certainly do not have to agree, but I think you might be interested.”

She gave Sherlock a nervous grin and her eyes darted to the right, where the doors to the theater had just swung shut. “Of course. ”

“I wrote a bit of music for you. You are not obligated to dance, but I will only incorporate the piece if you wish to perform.”

Molly’s mouth fell open and pink kissed each of her cheeks. Sherlock tilted his head in confusion. “If that would embarrass you, I don’t want you to—”

She gave a breathy exhale, chased by a small giggle. “You wrote music for me to dance to?”

“Yes. Is that… is that not normal?”

“Sherlock, I would be honored.” She was beaming down at him from the stage. “Did you have something specific in mind?”

“I do, but I want you to interpret it however you see fit. You can modify it, shift it around, whatever you’d like.”

Molly nodded enthusiastically and laughed. “Let’s see then.”

Sherlock grinned and took a large step up onto the stage. “Will you push that button? Yes, that one, just there. Thank you.”

Molly sat cross legged on the edge of the stage, hands folded in her lap, as Sherlock began.

 

 

-

John tugged his warmest fleece on over his long sleeved crew shirt. Though he knew it wasn’t cold out, the first real change in seasonal weather always threw his body off. He shivered under the wet of his hair and lack of heat in the locker room.

“Pint?” Callum looked at him, both reassuring and encouraging. John knew that they hadn’t done their weekly evening out in what felt like ages, and he also knew Callum had been patiently waiting for all this to pass. The captain was hardly in a position to feel otherwise; he had grown quite exhausted of feeling irritable, frustrated, and dealing with this feeling of floundering and/or drowning. He couldn’t decide if he still had his nose above water, or if he even cared.

“Yeah. Sounds like a proper solution to a ridiculous problem.” Callum grinned, and John could see it in his face that he understood exactly what John meant. Callum had told him to put it to bed, and perhaps, eventually, that’s just what he’d do. For now, it wasn’t a concern and it was taking up far too much of his already limited brain space. He nodded again, in affirmation, and the two men headed for the Duke and Duchess.

Jess, their favorite bartender, was telling some story to a newcomer, likely the one about her ex-boyfriend getting punched by her younger sister. It was her best story, and it only got better every time she told it. Jess glanced at the door upon hearing it swing open and grinned, arms extended up in the air. “Hold on a sec, it gets good, I swear!” She shuffled to the end of the counter, her t-shirt with cut off sleeves swaying carelessly around her thin waist. Bleach stains lined the frayed bottom, likely from cleaning the bar and tables at the end of her shifts. Jess had been working at the Duke and Duchess for as long as John could remember. Thursday night drinks were a long-standing tradition for him and Callum: they would get inordinately pissed the night before their uni matches, and Jess would shuffle them out, her home en route to the boys’ shoddy apartment. Her laugh was a solid one, loud and happy, and her toothy grin put John at ease.

“ _There_ are my favorite boys! Where the hell’ve you been? I feel like it’s been ages! Three, four weeks?” She cocked a demanding eyebrow, prying, unexpectantly, for an explanation.

“Been a rough month, Jess.” Callum responded, trying desperately to make a discreet head tilt towards John, and failing. John laughed aloud, the sound feeling foreign. He missed it.

“What he means to say is that I’ve been a selfish prick as of late, and he’s been too good of a man to tell me to sod off.” Jess nodded, as though she understood exactly what he meant, and flashed another smile.

“Regular poison tonight boys, or do we need something a bit stronger?” She tucked a stray, neon blue piece of hair behind her ear, contrasting sharply with the dark, black braids that fell over her shoulders. Everything about Jess was so easy. John had always found her physically attractive, and figured maybe, one day, if he settled down with a woman, she would have a presence similar to hers: bright, forgiving, kind and happy. Particularly the happy part.

“Just our regular would be great, Jess, thanks,” John responded, pulled out a chair from their high top by the street window.

“Two Imperials, coming your way.” She turned her back to the boys, pulling two glasses from the shelf, and settling them diagonally near the tap.

“Oy, you! If you’re gonna insist on being sick, drag your sorry ass to the toilets! I just scrubbed this floor last night.” John followed her eyes to the poor sod sitting across the bar, head lolling around on his neck as though it were only attached by a ball and socket joint. He chuckled, breathing in the familiar smell of stale beer and cigarettes, and Collective Soul coming through the speakers. A calm settled into his bones and for the first time in nearly a month, he felt as though he had finally pulled his spirit back inside his body whilst simultaneously telling his mind to _shut the hell up._

“So, tomorrow. How are you feeling, Cap?” Callum’s fingers tapped in a rhythm to Shine as he stared out at the growing night.

“We’re going to destroy them.” John winked and Jess showed up at their table.

“Here you go, loves. Need anything, you know where to find me.” Both the boys smiled at her in thanks. Callum wrapped his hand around his mug and lifted it into the air.

“To my best mate, my idol, and my captain. John Watson, in case you haven’t met him. S’good to have you back.” The glasses clunked clumsily together and the boys downed the beer in one, solid go. John wiped his mouth on his sleeve and laughed.

“Love you, mate.”

Callum put his finger to his mouth and made a gagging sound. John smacked him hard on the shoulder, and his friend chuckled.

“You know I love you too, Watson.” There was a small pause before John piped up again.

“I’m sorry. For, you know. All this.”

“Never apologize to me. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

And that was all he needed. Jess brought a second glass, and the boys drown into their routine, like nothing had ever happened. And in the back of John’s mind, he knew nothing had. Nothing was different, not really. Not in Callum’s eyes, or anyone else's. Did he really need anything more?

 

 

-

Molly’s chest was heaving as she paused by the bar to rest. Sherlock had left hours earlier, knowing Molly needed little assistance in perfecting the piece on her own. Her sweatshirt had turned nearly black from the sweat it was collecting from her lean frame, the wild hairs near her ears and the nape of her neck clinging to her damp skin. She went through a set of cooling down stretches, knowing she had already worked too hard for one night. She could feel the muscles of her calves screaming, pulled taut like a rolled up window shade. She sat cross legged on the floor and rested back on her elbows, waiting for her body to find its equilibrium before heading back to the flat. She let her head fall back, exposing sweat covered collarbones, her ponytail sweeping the stage floor.

“I thought I was the only one who could leave you so thoroughly debauched.”

Molly yanked her head up to find Callum sitting in a middle row of the theater, feet propped up on the back of a seat and arms folded across his chest. She sat up straight, and chuckled. “Hi.”

Callum put his feet back to the floor, slowly getting up from his seat and strolling toward the aisle. “That never gets old, by the way.”

She tilted her head to the side, face revealing her confusion.

“Watching you dance.” Callum’s voice was low and breathy. Molly felt her own stop dead in her chest. She rose to her knees.

“Is that so?” She felt a smug smirk possess her mouth in spite of herself.

“God, yes.” Callum was at the edge of the stage, weaving through the orchestra pit, until he stood in front of his fiancée. “C’mere.” Molly stood and walked to where Callum was waiting, her feet red and raw from working on pointe for nearly five hours. His hands ran up her pink legs, gripping her thighs where they met the tight line of her leotard. She let a ragged exhale escape from her lips and Callum grinned. “Going my way?”

Molly dropped to her knees at the edge of the stage, wrapping her arms around Callum’s neck. “Depends. Don’t you think I need more practice?” He leaned forward and kissed where her right hip bone protruded through her clothes. Callum wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her off the stage.

“Can’t you practice at home? Show me what you’ve learned.”

Molly wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him fervently.

“Gladly.”

 

 

-

John looked around at his team, resting against the lockers and sprawled around the benches and floor. He had all eyes; the match was going to begin in a matter of minutes. He beamed.

“It’s been a hell of a month, boys, and a rough two weeks since our last match.” The men continued to watch him, making no remarks or snide looks. John knew he had the best team in the league, no matter who the other teams traded around, what other countries competed, or how young some of his players were. They were solid men; strong, confident and kind, and he knew they loved one another as if they were blood. He knew there had been a time and place in his life he never would have made it through if not for these twenty-two men; a constant comfort in his life; a soft place to land whenever he fell unexpectedly, supplying the love and support he never received elsewhere. Tears pricked his eyes, and he pressed on.

“I owe every one of you an apology. I’ve been a fucking prick these last two weeks, and you’ve done nothing to deserve it. You have busted your arses day in and day out, giving me tens of hours extra of practice time while never once complaining, listened to me bitch and moan and be absolutely foul, offered up solutions when my own head was too clouded to offer them...” He looked to them for a response, and felt a warmth bloom in his chest at the sign of Rhys’ smiling eyes and Callum’s silent chuckle, pressing him to continue on. “I was a right arsehole. You were fantastic. You will win this match today, and it will not have a damn thing to do with me. Just wanted you to know I’m fully aware.” He waited for the crash of emotion to pass, and finished. “As always, boys, you save me, each and every day. Now. Let’s get the fuck out on that pitch and get this shit over with. I’m looking forward to the green of Ireland.” His teammates clapped and whistled, rising to their feet, slapping each other on the back and grinning like fools. A tear leaked from John’s eye as his brothers traveled through the entryway out onto the green of the field, under the bright lights and screaming fans. He wiped it away brusquely, knowing despite the way his life had unfolded, nothing, _nothing,_ on God’s green earth was better than this.

 

 

-

“Another try scored by hooker John Watson!”

“I can’t believe this; fifth try in the first half, Rhys Rex is on _fire_ tonight!”

“Did you just see that tackle? B Collins is holding nothing back tonight. St Helens, in the lead, 30-7.”

 

 

-

Sherlock’s foot tapped nervously against the floor, frustrated by Irene’s tardiness. Would it kill her to show up for something on time? She knew he had a million—

“I really wish you’d get that fidget under control. It’s so unattractive.” Irene smirked, lips blood-red and dressed to the nine’s in black, back exposed, and her hair half down. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, aware of everyone else's in the restaurant. She couldn’t go _anywhere_ without being the center of attention.

“Irene.”

“Sherlock.” Her voice mocked his in its depth and firmness. He felt the corner of his mouth pull up in a small smile.

“You look lovely.”

“Yes, I know. I figured it’d be fun to make people think we were together. Sick game I like to play. Easy to believe. We are frightfully attractive.”

“And both very much uninterested in the opposite sex.”

Irene chuckled aloud at that, nodding her head in quiet agreement. “Indeed,” she whispered over the table, red-laquered nails tapping. “Have you already ordered something to drink?”

“You know I’m not planning to—”

The waiter met them at the table, fawning over Irene, as she crossed her long, uncovered legs in his direction. “What can I get for you, ma’am?” he barely managed.

“Hello, sweetheart. May I please have two rum and cokes, one for me, and one for my date? And make them strong.” The smile on the waiter’s face faltered a bit as he glanced over to Sherlock, dressed sharply in his typical black suit, his burgundy button up pressed and pulling slightly at the buttons. He gave the waiter a grimace, to which the young boy responded with a look of disbelief. Sherlock chuckled, knowing Joseph, the waiter, was practically screaming _how can you find this, find her, dull?! Just LOOK at her._ Sherlock chuckled, nodded, and then ordered their food. “I’ll have the spaghetti, and Irene would like a lunch portion of the angel hair dalvina.” Joseph nodded and rushed off to the bar.

“I do love it when you order for me,” Irene quipped as she rolled her eyes. Sherlock winked, placing his folded hands in his lap. “Do you have the music?”

Sherlock nodded, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an MP3 device, and over to the inside of his booth, extracting a plain, manila folder. He passed both over the table, and Irene snatched them, tucking them into her oversized handbag.

“The MP3 has a recording of each, so you can hear how I want them to sound in their final stage.”

Irene stared at him, mouth slightly parted. “You composed, played and recorded all of this music in two days?”

“Pay attention, Irene. The composing has been ongoing for nearly a month and a half. And of course I made a recording. God forbid you conduct your interpretation of my music.”

She laughed, head thrown back and throat exposed. “Sherlock, the songs are made up of universal _notes_. How much can one misinterpret that?”

“You are capable of anything, Irene Adler.” Sherlock nodded to Joseph, who had just delivered their beverages. He lifted his to his friend.

“That, my darling, I will not argue with.” The glasses clinked together, and they drank.

 

 

-

Their chatter filled the showers, the boys yelling excitedly. They had finished the match with a victory, 35-7. John felt pride swell deep in his chest as he toweled off and walked back into the locker rooms. The boys hushed as he entered, grinning up at him like mad.

“Boys. That was gorgeous. Rhys and Egan, those new plays were fail proof. Jasper, you were perfectly at home at three quarters. B, so glad you’re my fullback. Those tackles tonight were breathtaking. Literally, I stopped breathing on several occasions. A gift from God that I’m still standing, I believe.” The team laughed. “Wesley, way to step up and take a stab at right wing tonight.” John glanced at Callum, knowing his face was advertising his love for these boys like a neon lit sign. Callum grinned, gap and all, and laughed.

“Let’s fucking _celebrate_!”

“To Watson!” Callum hollered.

“To Watson!” the boys yelled in unison.

 

 

-

Sherlock was on his fourth drink, and the warm relaxation of a solid buzz was creeping slowly through his bloodstream. Irene was smiling lazily across the table, holding her lipstick stained glass in her right hand. She winked at him, coy as always. “See? Isn’t that lovely? You really ought to relax more often. You’re so structured, Sherlock. Every second of your day is plotted out from the first inhale you take in the morning.”

He smiled down into his glass, index finger tracing a ring around the rim. “Right you are, Irene,” he barely whispered.

“I know, that’s –” She blinked in confusion. “What?”

“Oh, that is quite sad. I admit to being wrong so rarely that you believe you have heard incorrectly?”

Irene gently shook her head back and forth, befuddlement still written across her eyes and furrowed brow. “No. That isn’t it. I just… how can I help? What can I do?”

Sherlock looked up at her, eyes calm and serene. He smiled; a gentle, tender thing that shook Irene to her bones. How human. She reached out to touch his cheek, brushing the backs of her knuckles against his skin. He leaned slightly into the touch, eyes closing. “There you are,” she whispered. “It has been too long.”

He let loose a rough laugh. “I agree. Thank you, Irene. You always know what I need, even when I do not.”

“Of course, darling. Another?”

“Another.”

“Joseph!”

As the waiter made his way over, a loud swarm of people began to pass in front of the window. Sherlock turned instinctively, observing the group of men. All were freshly bathed, bodies still seeming flushed and rosier than the cold weather typically allowed. Three, nine, twelve… twenty-two. There were twenty-two of them. All were built differently, but athletic in appearance. He ran through the possibilities in his head.

“Oh, look at that, Sherlock. Someone is playing a game with you. How handsome they all are!” Irene’s nails touched to her lips as she watched them.

He waved his hand dismissively, agreeing they were all healthy, and likely attractive to most people, but Sherlock had long since forgotten how to cater to desire or sexual attraction. Transport. He was just about to turn away when he made eye contact through the window. He was blonde, a bit on the shorter side, with fierce, blue eyes. He was laughing, clapping his friend on his shoulder, when their eyes met. His face fell instantaneously. Sherlock recognized the blonde’s friend; it was Callum, Molly’s fiancé. The gears shifted and clicked: they were a rugby team. And judging by their state, they just won a match. The blue eyes held his, switching back and forth, dropping to Sherlock’s mouth and back up again. Sherlock felt a shiver pass through his spine. Was this how people felt when he observed them? It had been years since he had felt this sort of vulnerable. He could see Irene watching them, knowing she was as fascinated as he was with this man’s attentiveness. Eventually, the blonde dropped his eyes, licked his lips, and turned his attention back to Callum.

“Okay. That was intense.” Her eyes were huge as she looked to Sherlock across the table.

“That was John Watson.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to target the cause of the heat rising to his cheeks.

 

 

-

**Won 35-7!**

_I know! We watched it on the telly! Callum, I am SO proud of you!_

_Celebrating?_

_Have I mentioned how hot you look in your uniform?_

**Out with the boys at the D &D. Not sure when I’ll be home. You’ll be alright?**

_Of course. Jane is over; we’re chatting about wedding things… and having a few drinks ourselves. Knock yourself out. Though not literally. That would make for a nightmare getting you in bed._

**Mmm. You cheeky thing. Don’t fall asleep. I want to celebrate with you, too.**

 

 

-

“Okay. So what are your colors again?”

“Jane! You’re the maid of honor! Aren’t you supposed to remember these things?” Molly giggled over her fourth beer. The pasta had not done much in keeping her head clear and focused.

“Yes, well, you text me like, seven different options a day, and I’m sorry if I can’t remember which you settled on!” Molly’s best friend took another sip from her quickly depleting Makers and Coke. She had a three ring binder open, dividers labeled for different aspects of the wedding. They were currently on _décor._ She tucked a blonde-tipped strand of hair behind her ear, the end of it falling right at her collarbone. “Okay. Listen. I think you should do something neutral with an accent.”

“Mhm,” Molly nodded, lips around the mouth of the beer bottle.

“We should not have made a booze run after dinner. We’re never going to get a damn thing done.”

“We should _dance_!” Molly exclaimed. She hopped up, opening her Macbook, and pulled up a playlist.

“Molly, that isn’t fair. You can _actually_ dance.” Jane’s eyebrow was cocked high on the left side of her face, gold lidded eye sparkling in the tungsten light of Molly’s sitting room. Molly yanked Jane to her feet, and set her drink down on the side table. A club remix of one of their Tove Lo favorites came on, and the girls began jumping around the room, occasionally swinging their hips and using a wooden spoon as a microphone.

“You’re outta your, you’re outta your, you’re outta your _miiiiiind_ , if you think that I, think that I can keep you outta my, outta my—”

“OH MY GOD.”

Jane stopped her arse shaking whilst standing on Molly and Callum’s couch. “What?!”

“YOU GET TO DANCE WITH JOHN!”

Jane defaulted to her trademark eyebrow. “Who?”

“Callum’s best mate! John! He is so _wonderful!_ ” Jane rolled her eyes, stepping down from the sofa cushions.

“Don’t even start that, Mols.”

“Start what? I’m not starting anythiiiing.” Jane knew the second the sing-song voice came out, she was absolutely plotting.

“Mols, you know I just got out of that relationship with Ian. I don’t want a damn thing to do with dating anytime soon.”

“I didn’t say a word about dating. He’s just wonderful, and I think you would enjoy his company. Besides, the wedding is still four months away.”

“Hey, that isn’t a long time. Enough fun, we need to focus…” The girls stared at each other, and erupted into laughter. “Another beer?”

“Yes, pleaaase!”

Jane chuckled as she opened the fridge, plucked another Oktoberfest from the six pack, and twisted off the lid with her flannel. “Here ya go, sunshine. Let’s get down to business.”

“Green,” Molly said suddenly.

“Well, shit. Okay. Green it is. Now, do we want it to be earthy or…”

 

 

-

The boys tossed their bags into the undercarriage of the charter bus, headlights glaring out into the dark of early morning. In a clumsy line, they sleepily shuffled onto the bus, most bundled up in sweats and large headphones placed over their ears.

Molly leaned in and kissed Callum on the cheek. “Please be safe, my love.” She nuzzled her cold, red nose into his neck and wrapped her arms around his neck. He gave her a tight squeeze, lifting her slippered feet off the ground, and kissed her fully on the mouth. Callum gave her a wink, stroked the side of her face with his fingers, and headed toward the bus. “Love you, Mols. See you soon.”

John looked to Molly and grinned. “I’ll take good care of him, Molly. Don’t fret.”

“You always do, John.”

He placed a soft kiss on her cheek and turned to climb onto the bus. She waved as Callum took the window seat. He blew her a kiss, and then proceeded to punch Wesley, likely for a comment having to do with being too affectionate. She laughed, crawled back into her sedan, and headed back to the flat.

 

 

-

John sat in the aisle seat next to Callum, who had passed out within the first half hour of the drive. Music from all the headphones melded together, and John chuckled to himself, scrubbing his face with his hands. The puzzled look on Sherlock’s face could not, for the life of him, be eliminated from the backs of his eyelids. Those ridiculous cheekbones had not been a trick of the lighting. And Irene sat across from him, looking stunning as ever, watching both of them with an expression John just could _not_ pinpoint. He sighed as he pulled out his own headphones, turning his iPod up to half volume, and put on an Incubus album. Within minutes, he was dozing.

 


	4. Satin Stripes: Meet the Characters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the characters of Satin Stripes

 

  MEET THE CHARACTERS:

 John Watson | Captain and Hooker of St Helens Rugby Team, 5'7", blue eyes, one finished sleeve and  
  _one sleeve in progress, fantastic karaoke star, Doctor Who fanatic, Gryffindor House, ladies man,_  
  _adrenaline junkie._  
  **Favorite tattoo:** The one I got with my best mate.

 Callum Everett | John Watson’s best mate, co-captain of St Helens Rugby Team, Molly Hooper’s fiancé  
  _5’11, green eyes, one tattoo, occasional facial hair, champion of Brew Night at the Duke and Duchess_  
  _for five years running._  
  **Favorite treat:** York Patties or Milky Way

 Sherlock Holmes | Composer, Dancer, and poet. Founder of Marylebone Dance Company. Bee-keeper,  
  _amateur chef, violinist. 6' flat, eyes change with mood and attire, consulting detective for DI Greg_  
  _Lestrade of NSY, younger brother of British Parliament member Mycroft Holmes._  
  **Favorite Musician:** Impossible. Too many to choose from.

 Molly Hooper | Dancer at Marylebone Dance Company, Callum Everett's fiancée, 5'5", brown eyes, nervous  
  _laugh, undefeated at Cluedo since the beginning of time, singer (her shower is the best venue thus far), best_  
  _friend of Jane Jesep, and secret songwriter._  
  **Favorite food:** Nutella, yum!

 Irene Adler | Conductor of the Marylebone Orchestra, composer, opera singer, and part-time dominatrix.  
  _Close friend of Sherlock Holmes, collector of vintage riding crops and fine crystal, resident of London,_  
  _sexual orientation: homosexual_  
  **Favorite instrument** : cello

 Jane Jesep | Best friend to Molly Hooper, high school art teacher, knitting queen, mixed media artist,  
  _part-time portrait photographer. 5'7", blue eyes, freckle constellation on right cheek. Converse Chuck_  
  _Taylor collector and connoisseur of chai tea._  
  **Favorite color** : plum

 Egan Scott | Flanker, ceramicist, kayaker. Described by his teammates as solid, level-headed, and reliable.  
  _6'2, hazel eyes, married, recorder of survival shows, soon to be father of a baby girl, avid reader and_  
  _gardener, enjoys backpacking cross-country with his wife._  
  **Favorite artist:** Taehoon Kim

 Jess Walden | Bartender at the Duke and Duchess, Imperial graduate, previously an exotic dancer. Drives  
  _a Suzuki motorbike, female role model is Lisbeth Salander, has been credited as the best mixer in_  
  _London, amateur DJ/radio personality.  
 _ **Favorite beverage:** Nothing beats a good Stella.

 Katherine Long | Accountant, short term fling of John Watson, meddlesome, selfish and ungrateful.  
  **Favorite TV show** : Real Housewives of Orange County

 Jasper Pierce | Three Quarters Back, tattoo apprentice prior to signing professionally with St Helens,  
  _film and photography degree, social media guru, plays guitar, ladies man, party reputation, 6' even_  
  **Favorite medium:** film photography

 Wesley Carter | Right Wing, computer programmer and hacker, Cambridge graduate, 5"10,  
  _well known for his lighting shows at local venues, plays bass in free time, oldest of three._  
  **Favorite band** : Band of Horses

 Rhys Rex | Lock, team-pain-in-the-ass, opinionated, sharp, degree in business and communications  
  _from Imperial, big brother in nature, known for picking fights, and winning, over 150 sexual partners,_  
  _Star-Trek Original series fan._  
  **Favorite female actress** : Scarlett Johansson.

 B Collins | Fullback, boxer, songwriter, orphan, owner of two Labrador retrievers (Dex and Dez),  
  _volunteer at three local boys' orphanages in London, previous acapella competitor, born in_  
  _Camden._  
  **Favorite movie:** Any James Bond, but did love Skyfall. Daniel Craig is a badass.


	5. Converge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **con·verge**  
>  kənˈvərj/  
> verb
> 
> (of several people or things) come together from different directions so as eventually to meet.  
> antonyms: diverge, leave
> 
> come from different directions and meet at (a place).
> 
> (of a number of things) gradually change so as to become similar or develop something in common.
> 
> (of lines) tend to meet at a point.  
> "a pair of lines of longitude are parallel at the equator but converge toward the poles"  
> synonyms: meet, intersect, cross, connect, link up, coincide, join, unite, merge
> 
>  **Hello, darling loves.**  
>  Here is the fourth chapter! A Sherlocked Girl has requested I post correlating songs to each chapter, so visit Chapter 1 to find my Playlist link. Here are the declared jams for chapter four:
> 
>  _Is There a Ghost - Band of Horses_ \- bus ride through Ireland  
>  _No Diggity - Chet Faker_ \- Pub Scene  
>  _Are You In? - Incubus_ \- Overall 
> 
> Enjoy the proper meeting of our two favorite men. <3

[4]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 **I met your infamous John Watson. SH**  
 _WHAT?! You finally met John and I wasn’t there? What did you think? Isn’t he such a good guy?  
_ **Well, we didn’t actually speak. We locked eyes through a window. SH**  
 _Oh! This weekend? The boys were out celebrating their victory! Did you see Callum as well?_  
 _And that sounded oddly… tense. Hah_  
 **Yes, of course. He and John are practically attached at the hip. SH  
** _They most certainly are. Great men, the both of them. I’m quite fortunate. Sad you didn’t speak._  
 **I think I understood what he was trying to say. SH  
** _Oh?_  
 **That’s another conversation for a much later date. Boarding the plane now. Keep an eye on Irene, will you? She loves to pretend she’s in charge when I’m gone. SH**  
 _Hahaha, she most certainly seems better qualified._  
 **Hardly, Molly Hooper. You are pure gold. See you soon. SH**  
 _Safe travels, Sherlock. :)_

 

 

-

The green expanses of Ireland unfolded with the rising sun, and John was so glad he was awake to witness it. There were moments in his life he deemed truly exceptional, moments he knew would float in his memory until the day he passed. They were usually fleeting: a range of seconds accompanied by a rare period of serenity and peace that took hold of John’s heart. Normally the vision itself wasn’t the source of tranquility, but merely being and existing and that, for now, was enough. As the orange sun rose over the horizon, John took a chance to peer around at his sleeping brothers, to soak in the fact that they had brought themselves here. He closed his eyes, forcing the tears to hold fast behind his lids, as gratitude flooded him: he saw the look on his mother’s face the day he was finally able to visit her in rehab; the first time he survived a tough scrum and came out on top; the first oranges and reds of the trees as autumn trickled its way in; the soft feeling of sweatpants; the smell of fire and the burn of whiskey, followed with twenty-one shot glasses clunking down on the counter at the Duke and Duchess; the gentle caress of a hand carding through his hair; Callum and Molly the night of their engagement, eyes wide and watering and perfect; the day he signed with St Helens alongside his best mate; Harriet’s gorgeous smiling face and matching blue eyes in the passenger seat of his Jetta when he was twenty-two, laughing and the wind rippling through her hair. John gasped as the tears broke free, leaking down his cheeks. He blinked, and upon opening his eyes, recalled Sherlock’s pale eyes staring into his, unwavering, slightly petrified through that glass window, and wiped the wetness from his face. He smiled to himself, knowing that he had a beautiful life. It was fucked up, most of it unfair, but he was grateful all the same. Sometimes you have to live in a world of demons in order to discover angels; John walked among them, aware of his his fortune of having so many others hold him up until he grew wings of his own.

Callum patted John’s arm, and John turned to the sleep marked co-captain.

“We have it good, haven’t we, John?” He saw the tears welling in Callum’s eyes, too, as he soaked in the tail end of the sunrise.

“Nothing better, Everett. Nothing better on this earth.”

 

 

-

“How are things going with Jane? Are you two behaving?”

John watched as Callum grinned like an idiot into the phone. Molly was recapping her day, and apparently her maid of honor was back to help with more wedding plans. John knew Callum was grateful; he had been feeling guilty lately for being so absent. Their wedding was in January, and October had just made its appearance. To the boys, it would pass like nothing. Their season would end just before the midwinter ceremony.

“Excellent. Tell her I said thank you. I’m sorry I’m not there to help, love.” John could hear Molly on the other line, murmuring something or the other about earning forgiveness. John blushed.

“I miss you, baby. I’ll let you know how the game goes tomorrow… Right, of course you’re going to watch it. I’m an idiot... You don’t have to watch. I know you need to work on that new performance Sherlock choreographed for you.”

More chatting ensued. John, for the first time, found himself wishing _he_ was having this conversation with someone.

“He did? What did he say? John didn’t even tell me that!” John’s ears perked up as Callum yanked his head to glare at John. “Why didn’t you tell me you saw Sherlock the other night?!” John felt a weird pain travel through his legs, stomach twisting in unison. _Because I’ve been trying to get that bastard out of my head! Damn you, Callum, you know that!_

“What? How did Molly know? I didn’t mention it to anyone. Wasn’t a big deal.”

Callum abandoned his conversation with Molly, holding the phone away from his ear. “He texted Molly. About you.”

John felt his head spiral. _Shit._ “How did he even know who I was?”

Callum raised a defiant eyebrow. “Seriously? I mean, Molly loves you. Why the hell wouldn’t she talk about you? You’re my best mate. Idiot.”

His lungs drained. “Right, of course. Well yeah, I just saw him through a window. No big deal. He was with Irene.”

Callum’s eyes drilled knowingly into his. John turned his back and grabbed his jacket.

“Gonna go grab a drink at the bar downstairs. Be back soon.”

“John—”

John waved a dismissive hand at Callum. He needed air.

 

 

-

Sherlock saw him walk through the door, cheeks flushed red, at the cold or too much alcohol consumption, he could not be sure. Sherlock watched him peel out of his jacket in an oddly attractive way, tugging logically at each sleeve first, then pulling his left arm out of the sleeve as his right hand held it steady behind his back. The result was a broadening of John’s shoulders and the slow reveal of two beautifully tattooed arms, full sleeve complete on the right and an in progress on the left. Sherlock looked down and took a quiet sip of his hot toddy, headphones still laced in his ears as his compositions played. He had come here in hopes of being able to plot out the next bit of choreography, but he knew now he would be fatally distracted. John draped his coat over a rack and pulled his cuffed sleeves back down over his elbow, covering the majority of a beautifully rendered lion and Union Jack flag that had spanned most of his elbow and forearm. Sherlock watched him dutifully as the rugby player approached the bar, seeming a bit more steady now. He plucked the headphone closest to John out of his ear in order to listen; invasive, he knew, but his curiosity had gotten the best of him. What did he sound like?

“Hello.” Sherlock felt a smirk pull at the right corner of his mouth as he stared down at the papers sprawled out in front of him, tiny gestural drawings scribbled in layers. “I’d like an Imperial Stout, please.” Oh. That was a lovely sound. Melodic and low and assertive. “Yes, on draft would be quite alright.” And so polite. Sherlock watched in fascination as gooseflesh crawled across his forearm. He tilted his head, cropped hair shifting with it, so he could better see John out of his peripheral vision. John had made his way up onto a stool, and Sherlock felt his brows furrow. Where was Callum? They were in Ireland, not parading around London. Sherlock could hardly believe John knew this area as well as he knew home. Why was he out alone? Sherlock pushed the lock button on his mobile and reexamined the date. They had a match tomorrow; their first in the International Cup, if he remembered correctly. The bartender set the beverage in front of John, and Sherlock turned to see John dead on, watching the muscles of his forearms tense as he clutched the mug and brought it to his lips. Sherlock felt heat around his neck and chest, a particularly annoying symptom that correlated with John Watson's presence. He was about to turn his attention back to his work when a brunette approached John at the counter. Sherlock continued to observe, seeing this as an opportunity to answer a lingering and particularly overbearing question he had tried to deduce earlier, quite unsuccessfully he might add. She flipped her hair over her shoulder as she propped an elbow on the bar, body turned toward John. Sherlock felt his nose wrinkle in disapproval at her proximity, and how forward she was with her intentions. He watched John’s eyes as they turned to hers; he laughed and began to chat her up. Sherlock had just felt the oncoming stone settling in the pit of his stomach when John looked past her and straight at him. He averted his eyes, far too late to avoid the burn of John’s drown-in-me blues and cursed himself for ever looking up in the first place. He tapped his pencil on the paper erratically and took a large swallow of his beverage.

And then John Watson was sitting in the booth opposite him, mug clunking down on the table, both elbows resting on the edge. Sherlock tried not to notice, but couldn’t stop his eyes from roving over the gorgeous, rich colors of the flag on John’s left arm. He peered up at John, trying to mask his face with indifference, and felt his chest lurch at the intensity of his gaze. _Christ, he was gorgeous_. While it was obvious John had had a great deal to drink already, it made him no less attentive.

“Can you hear me?” John folded his right hand over the other in the middle of the table, paying no attention to Sherlock’s mess. Sherlock only nodded in response.

“I saw your show. Incredible, what you do. You’re breathtaking. I mean. It’s breathtaking.”

Sherlock felt his breath freeze in his lungs. John Watson had seen him perform? _When?_ Why hadn’t anyone told him? He mulled it over in his head, trying to remember the last three weeks. Could Molly have mentioned it and he had just deleted it? After all, John Watson had held no particular significance before three days ago. He looked up to find John staring at him, waiting for some sort of response. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, hoping that would be enough to prompt John to continue.

“Molly told me you compose all the music. Is that true?” Sherlock nodded, now too far invested in the silence to shift out of it now.

“Is that what you’re doing now?” Sherlock nodded again.

“Right, I’ll leave you to it.” And with that, John stood up, wavering a bit, grabbed his mug and winked down at Sherlock. He downed the rest of his beer, left the mug on the bar and grabbed his coat. Sherlock watched him as he headed for the door, shrugging into his jacket, and blushed shamefully at the thought that flickered in the back of his mind: _good god, what a fantastic ass._

He shook his head, attempting to clear John Watson out of it, at least for the time being. He was hosting auditions tomorrow, and needed to be attentive, well rested and selective. He pulled out a folder and flipped through the candidates: Mary Morstan, Jim Moriarty, Sally Donovan, Janine Taylor, Bill Wiggins, Philip Anderson, Soo Lin. They were an odd array of possibilities and Sherlock didn’t know how to feel about any of them. He gathered up his sketches, tucked them into his backpack and downed the last, warm bit of his hot toddy. He gave a two fingered salute to the bartender as he pushed his way out into the cold.

 

 

-

John stumbled into the room, dropping the hotel key on the desk. Callum was passed out in the bed closest to the window. John clumsily rummaged through his bag to pull out his sleep clothes. His head was spinning with that ever-maddening man, sitting in a booth alone, dressed so casually in track pants and a comfortable sweatshirt, head barely twitching to the beat of his own damn compositions. Who looks that good in a fucking _sweatshirt_? Stoic and glorious and wordless. Elegant prick. And why the _fuck_ was he here in Ireland? _The universe is rarely so lazy,_ Harry’s voice whispered in the back of his head.

John scoffed. A hot shower would melt some of the tension away before he crawled into bed. He shut the door and ran the shower, undressing as the steam quickly filled the small room. He brushed his teeth, the taste of beer lingering unwanted on his tongue. He stepped into the shower and savored the scalding water on his feet, legs, and back. John let the water flow over his shoulders, dunking his head underneath to wet his hair. He picked up the soap, going through his normal wash. John made the fatal mistake of closing his eyes, and in his drunken stupidity, imagined Sherlock’s hands on him, pushing him hard against the shower wall, biting bruises across his collarbone and neck. Pressing that long, sinuous body flush against John’s, slipping a taut, gorgeous thigh through John’s legs... He opened eyes and groaned with frustration at the sight of his cock, filling quickly and demanding attention. John debated, then caved, lathering his hand in soap and running it down his length. He closed his eyes and imagined Sherlock’s elegant fingers working his hard on just the way he liked it: firm but clever. He bit his lip to prevent sound effects – the last thing he needed was Callum walking in while he was having a good wank. He pictured Sherlock hovering over him, shielding John from the falling water, pinning him to the wall and having that hand wrapped around both of them. He desperately tried to muster up an image of Sherlock’s hips rutting into John’s cock and his own hand, and then Sherlock’s voice, God, whatever it sounded like it had to be heavenly, growling in his ear: “Come for me.” And John did, nearly hitting his knees as he gasped for air.

 

 

-

Sherlock arrived back at his hotel as the sun was rising. He slipped into his hotel room and ran a shower as he slipped out of his running shorts and trainers. It had been months since he had resorted to running in order to clear his head, but he didn’t have a stage of his own to work out his frustrations on, so the seven mile run would just have to do. He glanced at his watch. Two hours until auditions. Perfect. He put on a pot of coffee, having picked up something better than the god awful hotel blend, and slipped into the steaming bathroom.

 

 

-

Callum smacked John’s ass, and John yanked his head up, snarling. “Fucking shit, Callum. Do you really have to wake me that way?”

Callum smirked. “Get outta bed. I picked up some tea for us.” John rolled over, scrubbed his face with his hands and inhaled, the sharp smell of black tea filling his nose.

“About being a prat when I wake up…”

The brunette chuckled and threw John’s uniform on the bed. “No sweat, not until two.”

John took a deep breath and rolled out of bed.

 

 

-

Sherlock dipped the teabag in and out of the hot water, encouraging his drink to steep faster. He had hardly slept, his usual four hours barely sufficing today. He felt tired and worn; not at all what he had wanted.

He laid each folder out on the table, feeling the nervous twitch crawl through his leg as he began to tap his foot against the carpeted floor. He couldn’t help but notice how much nicer Marylebone was in comparison to this small theater. He was about to deduce the history of the building when the first candidate took the stage. Sherlock rolled up his sleeves and opened the first folder: Mary Morstan.

 

 

-

No, no, no. She was all wrong. She liked cats, she was too aggressive on the stage, and her eyes… something about her eyes. She would never fit next to Molly and Sherlock _had_ to have someone who was compatible with his best dancer. Sherlock didn’t trust her. He shut her file and dropped it in the chair next to him. Bill Wiggins took stage next.

 

 

-

“How’re you feeling? I was a bit worried about you last night.”

“Nothing to worry about, Callum. Just a little tense from the travel. That’s all.” Callum rolled his eyes, knowing John was spouting bullshit. Rhys and Egan entered the restaurant, pulling up chairs to the too small tables and crowding them further with bagels and tiny cups of orange juice.

“Sleep alright, boys?” John asked them, raising an eyebrow. Rhys looked a little worse for wear, but Egan looked alert and solid. As always.

“Yeah. Slept real good.” Rhys winked and Callum chuckled. _How did he always manage to find someone to sleep with? Always._

“You’re filth, Rhys.”

“That I am.”

Egan spread cream cheese over his pitifully toasted bagel and smiled. “How’s Violet?” John implored. Egan was married, had been for nearly six years now. Violet was a fantastic woman, a badass and a hell of a character to have a man like Egan by her side. They were wild – outdoors all the time, hiking, kayaking, white water rafting. Last summer, they backpacked across Europe, just the two of them. John envied them, in a way. How amazing it would be, to have someone who shared so much in common with you. He felt he had never experienced that. Just a bunch of ditzy women looking for money and great sex. Anyway, Violet was four months pregnant. Most men would see the birth of a child as the end of world as they knew it, but of course Egan had wept tears of joy when Violet told him. Fucking incredible man.

“She’s great, John. Thanks for asking. Went to the doctor yesterday. Apparently at our next visit, we’ll be able to figure out whether it’s a boy or a girl. Violet and I are trying to decide if we want it to be a surprise.” _They would_ , John smiled. Egan Scott would crash head on into something with the utmost devotion without needing to know all the details.

“That’s amazing. Healthy? Strong? No issues?”

“No, everything’s perfect. She’s perfect.”

“Hell yeah, she is,” Rhys chimed in. Egan punched him squarely in the shoulder. Rhys’ toast fell out of his mouth. He rubbed his shoulder as he laughed. “Ow! You bastard!”

“Don’t be cheeky about my wife, Rhys. Violet could kick your ass and you know it.”

“Wouldn’t mind it either.”

“For fuck’s sake!” Egan said good-naturedly. Rhys was an animal, and everyone knew it. They had all learned that no woman was safe from Rhys’ endless string of vulgar commentary. Except Molly. Callum had said his fair share, but Molly had been the one to set him straight. One, solid smack across the face. John remembers the snarling words that left her mouth so well: “You will _never_ get a girl like me with a mouth like _that_ , Rhys Rex. You’re repulsive.” It was an awkward stretch of three days between Callum and Rhys when Rhys finally knocked on their apartment door and apologized. A true first. Molly had never had an issue since.

Jasper, B, and Wesley yanked up another table and joined the boys, while the rest of the team filed in and made themselves a seat. John grinned as he finished his third bowl of Fruit Loops.

 

 

-

Sherlock tapped his pencil on Bill’s file. He read through the notes he had scrabbled down in a rush to capture his first impression.

_-rough edges, but could be cleaned up_   
_-strong, urban background. great for modern._   
_-poor delivery_   
_lack of proper language_   
_average dress_   
_relaxed posture_

Sherlock set his file to the side. He nodded as the next dancer took the stage.

 

 

-

Molly walked up to the entrance of the theater only to find Irene there, tapping her feet impatiently, furiously typing on her mobile.

“Leave him be, Irene. You know he’s holding auditions today.” Irene turned her eyes on the brown eyed girl, ruthlessly running over her striped leg warmers and giant plaid flannel, Callum’s, most likely. She had spoken to Molly a few times, usually in Sherlock’s company. Irene had to admit she was a bit peeved that Sherlock had left _her_ with the keys. She was just a dancer.

Still… Something was commanding about her tone. It had subconsciously caused Irene to lock her phone mid-furious-text. She could respect that. Molly was timid, kind, and ew, _so trusting_ , but she took no shit. Irene couldn’t fault Molly for being nice.

“Well you’re here now, so I don’t have to fool with Herr Holmes.” Irene smiled and Molly chuckled, her posture becoming less tense. She opened the door, and Irene filed in behind her.

“Will you lock it back, please? Since it’s just the two of us.”

Irene clicked the lock, obeying, and trailed Molly into the theater.

“Do you mind if I practice, too?” Irene asked. Molly’s eyebrows raised up on her forehead, confused. Did Irene ask anyone's permission for anything?

“Sherlock just gave me some of the compositions, and I was wondering if you’d mind if I ran through them a few times.”

Understanding filled Molly’s eyes. “Of course, Irene.”

“I could play your piece, if you’d like?” Molly smiled, wide and sweet.

“That would be wonderful, thank you.”

 

 

-

Soo Lin was his best bet thus far. The last audition took the stage. Sherlock opened Jim Moriarty’s file and thumbed through his impressive and extensive resume. Sherlock took the man in, a bit on the shorter side, pale and thin, dark brown hair. His face was gaunt in nature, eyes hidden in the deep set sockets, and Sherlock found him to be intriguing. He waved his hand dismissively, allowing the music to begin.

Sherlock was following Jim’s every move across the stage. His technical abilities were damn near perfect, as much as he hated to admit it. But he was cold on the stage, and Sherlock could not move past it. He was sterile, feeling nothing, all form and no passion. While the skills were remarkable, he couldn’t picture Moriarty working with Molly, or anyone for that matter. He was a one-man show, and that was not what Sherlock was looking for. He closed the file towards the end of Jim’s dance and, reluctantly, let it sit next to Bill and Soo Lin’s. He would mull over it tonight in his hotel room, with an adult beverage and sweatpants.

Jim stopped, resting his hands on his hips, menacing grin taking his lips. Sherlock shivered. “Thank you for coming. You’ll be hearing from me within the week.”

As Sherlock started to stand, Jim jumped from the stage and leaned over the table, hovering over Sherlock. His head tilted to the side, and Sherlock was suddenly reminded of a snake, or a menacing arachnid, before devouring its prey. He stood, face close to Moriarty’s. Jim’s eyes were dead things, empty bundles of flesh inside their orbitals. Sherlock decided right then he hated him. John’s midnight eyes burned hot in sharp contrast on the back of Sherlock’s lids as he blinked, pushing in his chair.

“Don’t forget to call me, Sherlock.” His voice was soft, traces of easily noticeable mania seeping in at the edges.

“Oh don’t worry, Jim. You will hear from me.”

“I look forward to it. I’ve been trying to capture your attention for quite a while now, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock’s skin prickled as he pushed through the exit door, releasing the hot breath he had held still in his lungs. _Well, that proved to be interesting. And educational._

 

 

-

"And St Helens wins, yet again, 45-15 against Ireland. Next up in the International Cup, St Helens versus Scotland."

 

 


	6. Collision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> col·li·sion  
> kəˈliZHən/  
> noun
> 
> 1.  
> an instance of one moving object or person striking violently against another.  
> synonyms: crash, accident, impact, smash, bump, hit, wreck, pileup  
> "a collision in the passing lane"
> 
>  **Hello, my precious darlings**  
>  Welcome to Chapter Five. I hope it leaves you satisfied.
> 
> Songs for this chapter are as follows:  
>  _Ain't That Unusual_ \- Goo Goo Dolls  
>  _I Want You to Want Me_ \- Cheap Trick  
>  _Apple Blossom_ \- The White Stripes

[5]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock loosened his scarf as he settled into his seat on the plane, plucking a paper from the sleeping man next to him. He put in his headphones and slid his bag underneath his chair, crossed his legs in the small space the seat in front of him allowed, and unfolded the paper. He couldn’t stifle the laugh coming from his lips at the sight of the headline.

“ _St Helens wins first round of International Cup_ ”

And there was charming, devious John Watson, front and center, with all his teammates surrounding him on the green of the pitch. His grin was cheeky, white teeth glittering, and his eyes smiled just the same. Sherlock let a small hum reverberate in his chest at the sight of him. He couldn’t deny that the charming hooker - honestly, could they have not selected a different name for his position? – had made a place for himself in Sherlock’s skull. Sherlock had begun to see him everywhere: flipping through channels on the telly when he needed noise at night; through a window while he was out to dinner; solid visuals now accompanying Molly’s stories; burning in the back of his mind as a polar opposite of Jim Moriarty, everything warm and rich and right; and now, headlining the newspaper he nipped from the poor sod beside him. He smiled, folded the paper, and tucked it into his bag.

 

 

-

October passed in a rush, and before John knew it, December was around the corner. St Helens had won every match they played, always ahead by at least 5 tries, and John was thrilled. He had had little time for anything other than practice, sleep, perfecting new plays and travel to and from different places across Europe, simply to kick some ass. Their last match was the week before Christmas, and the boys had all agreed to take a week off in November to be with their families and to regain their humanity before diving headfirst back into six hour practices and scrimmages.

So Egan returned home to Violet, who was now showing at five and a half months, and Callum charmed Molly by taking her away on an extended weekend trip - she wouldn’t allow anything else at the peak of _her_ season as well. Wesley went to visit his mother and younger siblings, and B was working with the local boys’ homes teaching them the rules of rugby. 

B’s parents had both died in a train accident when he was only nine, and no one could get in touch with B’s aunt or uncles to ask if they would take him in. He was in an orphanage for nearly five years before they suggested foster families. B, which is actually short for Bartholomew, was a quiet kid, or so he said, and he only stayed in two foster homes from the time he was thirteen until he was eighteen. _I was lucky,_ John remembered B telling him in the first few months they met. _Other kids had it so much worse than I did. Foster families are often times far worse than being in the orphanage._ John had cringed at some of the horror stories B had told him about some of the other boys from the home. B went out on his own after he came of age. He got a job as a server at a nice restaurant and worked under an angel named Mrs. Hudson. She helped him out by giving him a discounted flat above the restaurant. B saved up, bought himself a bike, joined a gym. He worked over forty hours a week, and focused on training himself for rugby. For the life B had, John knew the kid was incredibly self-aware. B knew he had trouble managing anger and resentment. John figured, like most kids with a shitty home life, B could have taken it out on everyone else, turned to substance abuse, done horrible things and used his past as the excuse to ride until he found himself in a tits up situation he couldn’t bullshit his way out of. In fact, that scenario rang all too familiar. But B had channeled all that fury into athletics, and making himself physically, and mentally, stronger. B was a quiet guy, mild and soft-spoken in most situations. You would never believe him to be a boy who grew up feeling unloved and unworthy of other people’s love. He had turned himself into a man who knew the love he held for himself was enough, and had to be for the time being. John believed him to be one of the bravest men he had ever met.

Rhys would stag his way through the entire break, likely bringing home a different girl every night; Jasper said he had a few guitar gigs lined up at the local pubs. Most everyone had plans. Naturally, John had none. He had debated calling Katherine, but knew it would take too much work to salvage the barely-there relationship that had existed anyway, and he didn’t even want that. He was propped up on the sofa, popcorn on one side, whiskey in the other, watching the sixth season of Doctor Who when his mobile chimed.

“What in the actual fuck. This is my third fucking time watching this season and I _still_ don’t get this shit. Fucking River Song, you’re impossible.” John absentmindedly grabbed his phone. “Literally, impossible. How the _fuck_ do you even exist?” He swiped his finger across the screen.

 

_Help. Molly is wedding planning and Jane is here and I just need more testosterone._

 

It chimed again, and vibrated in John’s hand.

 

_Can that episode wait until later? Please!_

 

John chuckled and took another sip of his drink. He typed out his response.

 

**Currently one and a half sheets to the wind. Ask Molly if she wants to come here for dinner? I’ll cook. Bring Jane. I’m making pasta.**

 

John sipped again as he waited for a response. He glanced up at the telly to see Amy clutching a dissolving baby wrapped in a white cloth. Rory stood gaping next to her.

“What the _fuck_. I am not drunk enough for this.”

 

**Better hurry the fuck up, Everett.**   
_Don’t be a dick, Watson. She said yes. And so demanding about Jane. You better leave her be. Molly’ll beat you._   
**Piss off. I’m putting the water on.**   
**PS – I bet I’m great at wedding planning. Bring it allllllll.**   
_So about that one and half sheets… Definitely think you’re a solid two and two thirds._   
**Could be worse. At least I’m a sheet.**   
_What the fuck does that even mean?_   
**Haven’t the faintest. See you soon!**

 

 

There was a knock at the door and John opened it, lazy grin spreading across his face at the sight of two of his favorite people.

“John! Thank you so much for having us.”

“Molly, anytime. You know that. Please, come in out of the cold.”

Molly stepped inside, followed by Callum and then John saw a blonde – finally, another – trot up the stairs. “Sorry, I just… Hi.” She stood on the top step, a look on her face that John placed somewhere between surprise and curiosity. She gave an awkward half-wave.

“You must be Jane?” John gave her a substantial once-over. John smiled to himself at the fact that they coordinated in several ways: blue eyes, blonde hair, both about 5’7”, and both wearing white cable knit sweaters.

“And you’re John Watson. I have heard so much about you. Thanks so much for having us.”

“Of course! Come in, I just put the sauce on.” John shut the door behind Jane, and extended his hand. “May I take your coat?”

Jane smiled and John noticed the hesitancy behind it. He made a mental note to follow Callum’s directions, and gave her a friendly grin. It seemed to serve its purpose of reassuring her, because she shrugged out of her mustard yellow pea-coat and handed it over to John. He hung it in the closet and padded into the kitchen.

“Molly, Jane, would you like a beverage? I have both adult and non-adult.”

John smiled at the sound of Jane’s laugh. It was a cross between a giggle and guffaw, and was oddly endearing. “What exactly qualifies as a non-adult beverage? Do you have juice pouches in that fridge?”

“Perhaps I do, Jane. Would that offend you?” John turned to glance at her over his shoulder and winked. He absentmindedly stirred the sauce on the stove as he toed open the refrigerator.

“I would be offended if you _didn’t_ have them.”

“Well, fuck. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to be offended. I only have orange soda, ginger ale and lemonade.”

“Does whiskey go well with _any_ of those?” John did a full turn to face Jane, who had stepped into the kitchen and was leaning against the counter. He then shot a frantic look to Callum, trying to relay _how the fuck am I to not pursue this?_ He caught Molly’s eyes on the way back to Jane, and she was burying a smile into her hand.

“I wouldn’t recommend the orange soda. I speak from experience. I typically just do it on the rocks, but this blend goes well with ginger ale.”

Jane raised a curious eyebrow and John felt elation bubble up in his chest. This was going to be a good night.

“Was that a challenge?”

“Most certainly not. I would never do such a thing, would I Callum?” Callum chuckled behind them on the couch, where Molly was wrapped up next to him.

“Never. Not you, John Watson.”

“See? There. Never.”

Jane cut across him and pulled a can of orange soda from the fridge. John leaned against the counter and laughed as she helped herself to a glass - how the hell did she know where he kept his glasses? – and ice from the door of the fridge. She eyed him menacingly as she snagged the whiskey from the bar and poured herself a shallow layer at the bottom of the ice, and barely covered it with the orange soda.

“I’ll determine how I feel about orange soda.”

Molly rolled her eyes from the couch.

“See? I told you they’d be great,” Molly whispered into Callum’s ear.

“Yeah, except she just left Ian. Five years. Come on, Mols. No good.”

Molly turned to watch the two in the kitchen, smiling as Jane nearly choked on the concoction. John covered his mouth with his hand, trying to stifle a laugh. Jane swiped her sleeve across her pursed lips, and then set the glass down with a clunk.

“Alright. You’re right. That was fucking horrible.” John was shaking with laughter as he reached for the plates. As he turned around, Jane pointed an enthusiastic finger at his chest.

“HEY! We _match!”_ John laughed at her nearly seven minute late deduction.

“Glad you finally noticed.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?! Molly! Take a picture! I’m twinning with John Watson. Literally. Like in every way. That is so weird, holy shit!” She gave John another thorough look, from top to bottom, and grinned.

Molly pulled out her mobile and stood from the couch. Jane and John stood side by side, both holding up a half-full glass of whiskey on the rocks, and grinned for a photo.

“Are you two done now? I’m fuckin’ starved.” Callum whined from the living room.

“Yes, grumpy. Dinner is ready,” Molly teased. She and Jane set the table as John dished up.

 

 

-

Jane let her forehead drop to the table as she laughed. John made a note of her silent laugh, preciously bent halfway over and shaking with no sound. Molly was giggling into her hand, eyes squeezed shut and tears running down her cheeks. Callum chuckled, deep and warm in his chest. John looked around, wiping the few leaking tears from his own eyes. This was his family. Molly and Callum: whole, real, beautiful people who sent kindness out into the world with their every breath, and Jane. Whoever the hell she was or would be, John was thrilled to have met her. She was another ray of sunshine, and god knows he could use it. He sighed and began to stack up the dishes.

“Here, John…” Jane offered between gasps, “Let me… help. I’ll… help.”

“I’d greatly appreciate it if you didn’t drop my dishes, thank you. I bought these myself.”

Jane looked John in the eye, blue eyes wet with happy tears, and then she shot a bird at his back as he walked into the kitchen.

“I felt that obscene gesture, Jane Jesep. Shame on you.” He ran the sink and dropped the dishes in. Jane joined him on the other side, smiling.

“You wash, I’ll rinse? I'll be on my best behavior, I promise.” John nodded and began scrubbing, passing the sudsy dishes off to Jane. They were dried and stacked in a neat pile next to her side of the sink. John wiped down the counters and stove and dropped the sponge in the sink.

“Man. If having someone else live in this flat would help me get my dishes done that quickly every night, I might have to consider it.” Jane topped off John’s drink, and she grabbed the orange soda from the counter. They headed into the living room where Callum and Molly were working on two beers.

“You live here alone?” Jane seemed surprised, and John didn’t know what to make of that.

“I do, in fact. It was a big step, you know, being twenty-eight and all, but I have a nightlight, so it’s been okay.”

Jane laughed and set her can down on a coaster. _She’s fantastic,_ John thought. Jane twisted her hair up in a knot on the top of her head and leaned back on the sofa.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant. Well. I thought you’d… you know, _be_ with somebody.”

“You’re the only one that thinks so,” Callum quipped. John gave him a playful shove where he sat on the floor next to him.

“Am I?” Jane asked, looking directly at John. She seemed confused and certainly convinced that she was not the first person who had considered John in a serious relationship as a perfectly viable option. John only shrugged, completely unsure of where this conversation was headed.

“I mean, I was Callum’s first wife. But let’s be honest, Molly’s so much better.” The group chuckled. John could feel Jane’s eyes studying the side of his face and tried to dismiss it.

“Speaking of Molly, how’s the wedding planning going?”

Callum groaned far too enthusiastically. Molly elbowed him in the ribs.

“It’s going well, John, thanks. It’s mostly just covering the last minute details, finalizing a flower list, making sure all the suits and dresses are coming in on time…”

“Anything I can assist with?” he asked.

“Make me a stronger drink?” Callum offered. Molly turned to look at him, and he wilted under her eyes.

“You’ve hardly had to do any of it. And I’m not blaming you or being resentful of that, but honestly. If anyone hates doing it, it’s me. So stop complaining.” John and Jane glanced at each other, trying to feel out what the best move would be.

“I need another soda.”

“Me too.”

John and Jane got up from the couch and headed back into the kitchen so Molly and Callum could hash out an obviously much needed conversation. Jane pulled herself up to sit on the counter. John put the clean dishes away. He leaned against the sink and looked up to Jane, who was still working on her orange soda.

“Do you always use jokes to deflect serious topics?”

John raised his eyebrows.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like a prat. You could rightly tell me to sod off. I just. I don’t know, I wasn’t insulting you by asking why you lived alone. You just seem like a great guy, and I was surprised. You know. That you don’t have someone. And then Callum made a crack at you, which… I know you guys are best mates… Mols and I do it, too. I just didn’t want you to think that I was… I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

John laughed. Jane jerked her head to look at him again, signs of relief readily available on her face.

“You don’t have to explain why you ask the things you ask. You can ask whatever you like. If you want a serious response, I’ll offer one. I live alone because I prefer it that way. As primary school as it sounds, rugby is the love of my life – when I’m off season I’m training, and during our season we’re training and practicing and traveling to matches. And… there aren’t many women like Molly, or Violet, my buddy Egan’s wife, who are comfortable with that lifestyle. Most women want to date me because I show up in the newspapers and telly sometimes, I have a bit of money, and I’m fun.”

Jane was listening intently, so John, unaware of the words falling out of his mouth, continued.

“And until recently, that arrangement had worked quite nicely. Lately I find myself wishing I wasn’t such a bachelor.” John laughed to himself and Jane smiled, a sad but oddly sympathetic expression on her face.

“If it helps, I’ve done long term relationships, like… forever. Seriously. My friends have dubbed me _the serial monogamist_. That’s how bad it is.” John laughed, big and loud. He studied her face, and found clues that pointed him in the right direction: the crow’s feet hiding behind red and swollen eyes, the rawness of her buttoned nose, and the tiredness that took her body in a moment of honesty, when she thought no one else could see.

“Until recently?” He asked, as delicately as he could.

“Mmm, yes. Quite recently. Three weeks ago.”

John gave a short, small nod of understanding.

“How long?”

“Five years. Five fucking years.”

John looked up into her eyes, lost as to what to offer. He had never gone steady with anyone longer than five or six months, and even then it had hardly qualified as a real relationship. He rested his hand on her knee, unsure of the physical touch.

“I’m so sorry, Jane.”

She laid her hand on top of his and looked at him, tears brimming in her eyes.

“S’okay, John. Just the way shit goes sometimes.” She used her sleeve to stubbornly wipe away the tears – John could tell she was frustrated with crying, probably having little control over stopping it once it started. She gave his hand a squeeze and moved hers away, back to rest at the sides of her legs on the counter.

Jane huffed a small, sarcastic chuckle, nodding her head as if agreeing with the silence. John walked up to her and tilted her chin up.

“You look defeated. Even if you are, don’t let the others catch on.” He winked at her, and tucked a stray fringe of her bangs behind her ear. “Best thing Callum ever taught me. Our mantra. It’ll pass. You’re beautiful and clever and kind. And a teacher. You change lives every day, Jane. The world won't stop for us. Trust me, I know.” John clenched his jaw to check his emotions, as these words rang true even for him, even now. “So don’t let it suck you in. Stay above it. Chin high, shoulders square.” Jane obeyed, dramatically jutting her chin as far in the air as she could. They both laughed, tension easily dissolving around the warm sound. John gently kissed her cheek and extended an arm.

“Shall we go plan a wedding?”

Jane hopped down from the counter and grinned.

“Now John, you have to meet my parents first.”

As they walked into the living room, John shook his head.

“No ma’am, I don’t do parents.”

“Oh, then we will never date.”

“Good thing we weren’t planning to.”

She turned to him, smiling, and nodded.

“Yes. Good thing.” John noticed the quiet _thank you_ behind those tired eyes. He wasn’t what she needed. He knew it to be true. He wouldn’t date Jane Jesep. But he most certainly could befriend her.

 

 

-

The week passed far too quickly, and once, John and Jane met for lunch. Mostly to discuss how they could assist Molly and Callum in the upcoming months, but also for the company, each struggling with the lack thereof in their own lives: John wishing he had someone and Jane trying to figure out how the hell to be alone, properly. The lunch was wonderful: easy and mellow and honest. Jane drank three cups of coffee in one sitting and John ordered extra chips. And when they parted ways, he gave her a squeeze and she kissed his cheek, and that, as they say, was that.

Practice came back full force. The boys were well rested and eager for their last match of the season, even though they knew their captain would work them literally to the bone. Jasper was healing from John’s sprints, Egan and Rhys feeling the wrath as they fell into scrums with the ruthless blonde, and Callum just trying to keep stride with John’s pace. B and Wesley spent two extra hours in the weight room each day in an attempt to add on just a little extra bulk, if at all possible.

Molly was dancing and planning and exhausted and exhilarated. As the weeks passed and the wedding day grew closer, her love for Callum was reiterated through sweet notes on the mirror, late night love making despite their absolute exhaustion, and the wrapping of their wounds or damaged goods, delicately washed and medicated, sealed with a soft kiss through fresh gauze.

Sherlock drown himself in everything he could. He had selected Soo Lin as the newest addition to his company; she was kind and gracious and talented. Molly adored her, and the two fell together in synchronization like it was nothing unusual at all. The calls to the other candidates went as expected, apart from Moriarty’s, which, Sherlock admitted, _was_ to be expected. The guy was an absolute creep and Sherlock was having none of it. Jim’s voicemail was just a number and series of pips. Sherlock had left a message on the machine, thanking him for his time, but _I have selected another candidate to join my company_. Less than twenty minutes later, Sherlock heard his text tone:

_I hardly believe this will be the last time we meet, Sherlock. Next time, I plan to be exactly what you are looking for. –J_

And with a swipe of his finger, the message was gone. And the day passed. And then weeks. And then months.

 

-

_Sherlock, I’m so sorry to bother you, but could you and Irene please stop at Tesco on your way and grab an extra bag of ice? We barely have enough and I just don’t want someone to go without a cold drink._   
**Of course we will. Leaving the flat now. SH**   
_Oh my gosh, thank you so much! I am forever in your debt!_   
**That’s a bit much, Molly. Don’t mention that to Irene. SH  
Relax. We will see you soon. This is a night you and Callum are meant to enjoy. SH**

 

John was straightening the cream linens on the table. Jane was laughing as she unrolled the burlap décor, placing candles elegantly next to succulents and pine needles. He glanced at her as she busied herself with the centerpiece, and felt warmth in his chest at discovering her. She had come so far since they first met.

“Hello. Where would you like the ice?”

John froze where he stood, eyes on the table. Jane went to grab the lighter from his hand and noticed his stillness.

“John?” she whispered. He was so grateful for Jane. She understood situations without even _knowing_ what they were. “You alright?”

He just nodded, unable to bring himself to turn around and put those pale eyes to a gorgeous voice. He would be sick if it was who he believed it to be. But then again, why wouldn’t it be? Jane looked from him to the source of sound, and then back. Her eyes widened a fractional amount. “OH.”

John winced. Jane seemed startled by his response. She waved her hand dismissively, and then made a point to look at the man by the door and back to John. Then she winked and walked past him. He took it back. He took it all back. He was going to strangle her alive.

“I’ll take it!” Jane offered. “I’m Jane Jesep. You must be Sherlock! Molly talks about you all the time!”

“All good things I hope. Thank you. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Jane. This is Irene.” Irene waved, since Jane's hand was now full of an awkwardly wet ice bag.

What was that _voice?_ John finally stood up straight. As he turned to face his imminent doom and greatest desire, Jane piped up with a bright smile on her face.

“And this is—“

“John Watson. Yes. I know.”

John rested his hand on the table as discreetly as possible. He actually needed support to stand. This was fucking ridiculous. Had anyone… Had he ever… Had sex ever even… Shit. Fucking shit.

“Have you met before?” Jane asked, cheekily, John noted. She knew the answer to that.

“Once or twice, and only in passing. Unfortunately.”

John’s eyes found his at that. They were pale. Grey or blue or green, John certainly could not decide. Perhaps all three. Perhaps he didn’t care. The man was staggering in his tailored gray suit; it clung to his shoulders and narrow waist and had John’s head reeling. Sherlock raised a defiant eyebrow and John watched as his mouth turned up into a knowing smirk. John chuckled.

“Yes. Quite unfortunate indeed.”

 

 


	7. Declaration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **dec·la·ra·tion**  
>  dekləˈrāSH(ə)n/  
> noun
> 
> the formal announcement of the beginning of a state or condition.  
> synonyms: proclamation, notification, announcement, revelation, disclosure, broadcasting
> 
>  **Hello, babies.**  
>  Welcome to the next chapter. This one is a bit longer than the others... sorry [not sorry] for getting a bit carried away.  
> Now. I normally do all songs first. Today, I am putting them all at the end, because SPOILERS, SWEETHEART. So don't cheat, read it all first, then listen. :) 
> 
> Go, read, be merry.  
> Adore you, my darlings. I hope this does our men justice.  
> XoX  
> hamishh

[6]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

John knocked on the door of the girl’s cabin, partially terrified of having his head bitten off. Jane answered the door, wearing a stunning, beige dress. Her hair was up and curled, her freckles faded from winter hibernation. Her blue eyes stood out like tidal pools against the shimmery browns of her eyeshadow. John grinned, eyebrows high on his forehead.

“Jane. You look-”

“Ridiculous, I know. I’m far too pale for this color. But Molly…” Jane’s eyes were quickly brimming with tears. “Oh, John. She’s perfect.”

“Am I allowed to see? I wanted to reassure her and give her a little something.”

“Yes, of course. Let me make sure she’s still decent.” Jane disappeared behind the door.

John stood on the top step, nearly shivering, and ran his thumb along the wax seal of the envelope he held for Molly. Callum was a wreck, fit to be tied. Not in a bad way, you see, but in the best way.

 

“John. I love you, but this is better than winning the International Cup.”

 

John had chuckled at that, and given Callum a square smack on the ass. John Watson loved rugby, he was one _hell_ of a hooker, a decent captain… But he was sure this might be the best day of _his_ life as well.

Jane peered back around the door and beckoned him inside.

Molly stood in front of a floor length mirror, fiddling with her ever present flyaways. Without recognizing he had already started, a sob escaped his chest and he felt the warm tears break free from his lids. Molly turned to look at him and grinned. Molly had a gorgeous smile, always, but today it was radiant, and she was an ethereal creature, glowing right out of her skin. Her dress was simple: a floor length empire waist in white silk. The straps were thin and accentuated her shoulders and her now fantastic posture. Molly’s hair was falling in curls down her back, only the sides woven up into intricate braids. She reminded John of an Elfish princess. It was perfect. She was perfect. He glanced at Jane, who already had tears streaming steadily down her face.

“John.”

“Mols. You look amazing.” She blushed at that. “I have something for you. I thought it might, I dunno, calm your nerves.” He extended the envelope to her, and then wrapped his arms tightly around Molly. As he kissed her cheek, he whispered, “This is better than winning the International Cup. Straight from his mouth. As he was in tears.”

John pulled away and Molly looked up, waving her hands at her face to encourage stubborn tears to stay in place.

“I love you, Molly.” John gave her his curt nod of reassurance before turning to Jane.

“And by the way, I _was_ going to say you are breathtaking. Before you interrupted me.” He winked and Jane gave his hand a squeeze.

“John?”

“Hm?”

“I love you, too. Thank you,” Molly whispered.

John made for the door. The rest of the night was textbook perfect. And that’s exactly what Molly and Callum deserved.

 

 

-

_My beloved Molly Hooper,_

_I have no idea where to begin. You know I am not always one for words, but today is worthy of my very best attempt, and I refuse to disappoint now._

_In less than an hour you will walk through those doors. My heart is rattling my ribs at the thought; I cannot wait to put my eyes upon you. I feel as though I have not seen you in years. I will probably cry. No, I know I will cry. I’m sorry for that._

_Do you remember the day we met? I toppled right into you while you were running near Xenia Hall*. Why you ran that close to Waterloo Station, I’ll never understand, but thank god. Thank god for you, Molly._

_You make me a better man. The best man I have ever been. I will only get better. That is my promise._

_Know as I share my vows with you today, I have never been more certain of anything in the entirety of my existence. My feet have never been cold, a second thought has not once crossed my mind: you are it. You are the one. I knew it, that first night we sat on your couch and watched telly and split a six. I have looked at many people in my life, Molly, but I did not understand what seeing was until that night, watching you laugh._

_You are perfect. And soon you will be mine._

_Safe travels down the aisle, my darling Molly Everett._

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

_Callum (Your husband!)_

 

 

-

Callum was practically trembling at the top of the aisle. He was chomping at the bit, rabid to lay eyes on his stunning bride. He was even more eager to slip that tiny symbol of eternity over her gorgeous ring finger, peppered with the tiniest scars.

The violin rang out, beautiful and quiet and earnest. Callum’s eyes were drowning already. This was Molly. This composition encompassed everything she was: still, but never stagnant; earnest, but never overeager; kind and gentle and sweet, but never false or pretentious. It filled every crevice of your heart and sank softly in. Callum looked to Sherlock, who was settled next to Irene, and gave him a watery eyed nod. A silent thank you. Sherlock’s chin still against the violin’s rest, he gave a nearly imperceptible bow instead, as if to say _you do not have to thank me for seeing what you see in her._ Irene’s cello joined, and John and Jane stepped into the aisle.

Callum knew he would cry. This was his wedding day. He was a sap and a softie and everyone who knew him knew it. The sight of John Watson in a suit was nothing unheard of. John Watson with intentionally mussed hair and a moss green bowtie was slightly unusual, but still a possibility. John Watson as a borderline emotional wreck, however, was a rarity indeed, at least to the public. Callum’s eyes found his best man’s, and he could see the tears. Even if John had been miles away, Callum would still see them.

Few people knew what John and Callum had gone through together, and the boys made a point of keeping it that way. It was a part of their lives they dared not reenter for fear of never getting out again. They had barely managed, dragging their bodies out of the figurative abyss, and hardly unscathed. Both had scars to prove it. But they had always had one another, without words or questions or doubts. The broken John Watson, strong for everyone but himself, was walking elegantly with Jane’s arm laced through his. The pair was grinning like fools when they reached him at the altar. John gave his shoulder a strong squeeze as he took his place next to Callum.

“How’re you holding up, mate?” he whispered into Callum’s ear. Callum laughed and tilted his chin towards John, never taking his eyes off the walkway.

“Bet you everyone thinks I want to marry you instead. Pretty sure I sobbed like a child when you and Jane took the aisle.”

John chuckled in response, and leaned around to give Jane a thumbs up behind Callum’s back. She smiled, and turned her attention toward the cabin doors. Callum only saw a glimpse of white through the now-standing bodies. His heart lurched in his chest as Molly and her father broke free of the people impairing his vision. The violin matched the stammer of his heart and reminded him to breathe. How had Sherlock anticipated his feelings at this very moment?

The tears fell, hot and wet against his cold face. And then, there was cold and wet. As his bride walked up the aisle, snow fell. He watched as Molly laughed and stuck her hand out to catch the flakes as they kissed her warm, radiant skin. She was heaven on earth: a slice of hot apple pie with vanilla ice cream; the first day of summer, warm and flushed and in full bloom; she was the feeling of victory on the rich green of the pitch, his favorite smell of damp earth and clover; she was the healing kiss of ointment, the drowning of tension in a hot shower, she was pure relief; she was the perfect pair of jeans, snug and comfortable and no matter how often you wore them, they only got better; she was steam rising from a hot cup of tea, swirling, aimless and light through whatever the air held next for her; Molly was the sunrise and the sunset, the laughter from his lungs, the earth and the sun and the meteor belt: the perfect balance orbiting. She was the core of his well-being, the source of his joy, the marrow of his bones. And she was his. For as long as they lived.

Her father passed her mitted hands into his, and Callum soaked her in. Molly’s eyes were wet and red, but she was smiling, lips pressed firmly together in a shy way. Her cheeks were rosy, her bare shoulders hardly evident under her beautifully knit shawl, long silk pooling behind her feet.

Her eyes flittered back and forth between each of Callum’s, his tears afresh. _I love you_ , she mouthed.

He dropped one of her hands and caressed her cheek, his vision blurred. _I love you most._

 

 

-

Sherlock gently placed his violin back into its case, clicking it shut away from the snow. He then tugged the collar of his Belstaff tighter around his scarf and suit, and turned his attention back to the ceremony.

Molly was a vision. If you asked her if she was a graceful individual, she would deny it. But Sherlock knew she possessed grace in so many ways, not just on her feet. She was particularly fantastic with social graces, something she had thankfully rubbed off on Sherlock. It wasn’t an area he was truly daft, but he lacked the finesse of warm kindness. Molly was the epitome of it.

Callum was an interesting man. Sherlock had properly surmised everything important about him when they first met, or so he had originally thought. While he was ordinary in the most ordinary ways, he was also a man of great spirit, courage, and gumption. He loved Molly with every ounce of his being, and this brought warmth to Sherlock’s heart. Some believed him to be unfeeling, but that was far from true. So very far indeed.

He allowed himself the pleasure of resting his eyes on the best man. John stood next to Callum, hands clasped in front of his hips with a resilient posture. Sherlock wondered if he was raised by a military man; so many things about John seemed meticulously in check. Even his hair, mussed about with product, looked perfect. _Or perhaps I am past the point of drawing a conclusion without bias_ , Sherlock considered. John’s suit was a light grey wool, tailored, but not in the way Sherlock’s were tailored. The trousers weren’t slimming through the ankle and the coat didn’t cut in near the waist. _Makes sense,_ he thought, _he may be fun, but he’s a humble man._ Sherlock’s eyes ran mercilessly over John’s form, absorbing the slight rock back and forth between his feet, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on the top of his left hand, the way he leant his chin up when he fought with tears, attempting to drown them back in his eyes and make them stay. Sherlock felt his heart throbbing loudly in his ears and cursed the body’s natural reaction.

John licked his lips and then chuckled, Callum now giving Molly his vows. Something stirred deep in Sherlock’s ribcage.

_Damnit, John._

 

 

-

The plates had been cleared and John had just finished his second whiskey mix. Molly and Callum were grinning and chatting and everyone around them was alight with their happiness. It was beautiful thing. They were a beautiful thing to witness. The disc jockey brought John a cordless microphone, and he suddenly felt a rush of panic. Is it already time? Had this already happened? My best mate is _married._ What was my speech again? Shit. He took the mic, and Jane gave him an encouraging smack on the ass as he stood from his chair. She passed him the telegrams first:

“To anyone who is fortunate enough to have never had to meet me before tonight, I’m John Watson. And I apologize in advance for my poor behavior as the night proceeds.” The crowd chuckled and murmured and John’s head was spinning. He glanced around the room and found Sherlock sitting alone at a round table, legs crossed and an amber colored beverage in hand. He was elegant and gorgeous and unattainable. Sherlock gave him the smallest smile and a duck of his head, _go on, John, you’ll be fine_ , and then John’s skull was full of perfect, white noise.

“As is tradition, first I will read the telegrams. These aren’t my words, so don’t hold any of them against me.” Another murmur and hushed laugh trickled through the room.

John read out the cards one by one, _lots of love_ , _wish we could be there_ , _your Aunt Josie is so proud of you, Callum. You had best keep her._ He picked up his whiskey glass and took a sip, raising his eyebrows over the rim. As he set it down, he whispered into the microphone, “just a little liquid courage.” He saw Sherlock smile from the corner of his eye, the last little push into action.

“There’s something you all don’t know about Callum. Before Molly, there was someone else. A first wife, if you will.” The room was flooded with whispers and raised eyebrows, and Jane swatted him hard on the leg. Callum was covering his mouth, in a horrible attempt to stifle laughter and Molly looked appalled. “Don’t fret, really, the first wife was hardly worth mentioning; he reminds me of it all the time. Turns out the first wife just didn’t cut it: Something about being too childish, never being able to clean up their own messes, and never remembering to switch the towels over. Nothing worse than soured towels. Am I right?” Everyone stared wide-eyed and John chuckled to himself. “Before Molly came along, Callum was stuck with me, the first wife.” Fits of laughter erupted throughout the room, Jane’s eyes were wet with mirth, Molly’s father finally relaxed and Sherlock’s mouth was twisted into a quirk of a smile. “Apparently I make a shoddy companion; ladies, you have been warned. Callum Everett…” John plucked up the courage to look to his best mate, sitting at his left. Callum was beaming up at him, clearly already pleased. “You have saved my life, figuratively and literally, nearly a hundred times over.” He paused to still his raging heartbeat. “We have known each other our entire lives. We have overcome the most ridiculous of scrums, on the pitch and off, we have dated some truly atrocious women, we have developed bad habits and broken bad habits. We have cultivated an amazing team of men, we have pushed our way to victory at an International Cup, we have danced and drank far too much and we can barely remember the time when we were able to share our wardrobes. We have laughed, we have cried, we have fought, and we have endured a hell other people can only imagine in their dreams.” The room was silent now, and John was speaking directly to Callum. “I don’t deserve a best mate like you. In fact, I deserve little in comparison to the spectacular character you possess. You and I both know I would not be standing next to you, witnessing this incredible union, rambling like an idiot if it were not for your kindness, understanding, and unwavering loyalty.” John swallowed the lump of emotion lodged in his throat.

“Molly.” John turned to Molly, her eyes damp and a pitiful smile pushing through the tears. “Oh, Molly. I am so fortunate to defy the odds and know you. Most best men have to spend weeks concocting a kind thing to say about the woman they hardly know before they stand up here and deliver a speech.” He smiled at her. “You are an amazing woman. You are an individual of unearthly character; a perfect example to all of humanity of what a kind soul and magnificent spirit encompass. You have brought so much light into Callum’s life, and as a result, into mine. You, too, have saved me, Molly, and remind me every single day that finding someone with a heart like yours is not impossible. To know that you exist brings hope to every man waiting to find a companion.”

The room then filled with murmuring baritones and tenors, quiet clunks on tables, and Sherlock’s soothing voice whispering, “hear, hear,” encouraging the other gentlemen in the room to do the same. Molly choked back a sob, moved by the ferocity of agreement, and Callum squeezed her into his side, planting a firm kiss on her temple.

“Know that you and Callum are my family. My brother and sister; the blood I believe to carry in my veins." A solitary tear ran down John's right cheek. "I would do anything and everything for the pair of you, and know you would do the same, because you already have. I love you both, so very much, and there isn’t another couple on the face of this planet that could outshine you.” John looked out across the room and watched their guests sniffling and wiping their eyes with their napkins. Callum’s mother blew him a discreet kiss. “Please raise your glass in honor of the two best individuals we have ever encountered. To Molly and Callum, and to the eternity that awaits you. I love you.”

“To Molly and Callum,” the room whispered in unison. And they tipped their drinks. John took his seat once again and Jane leaned into his ear, making a small request. He passed her the microphone and she stood next to him, fidgeting with the folds of her dress.

“Hello. I’m sorry to interrupt. I had not originally planned a speech, and Molly, of course, in her never ending kindness, had not requested I make one. But I’m Jane Jesep, Molly’s maid of honor. And while I don’t know many of you very well, I just wanted to pipe up and say that in all my life, which I am aware hasn’t necessarily been that long, but humor me…” the room gave a soft laugh and John smiled up at her. “I have never before witnessed the kind of love that exists around Callum and Molly. I think many people walk through their lives every day, believing this sort of love is not a tangible thing: I most certainly believed that. Spent five years of my life believing it, in fact. So I guess my point… what is my point?” John laughed and nodded, encouraging her to continue. “My point is that Molly and Callum are two fantastic human beings, of course, but they would only be two decent humans if it were not for those that love them. Thank you for being here with them today, and know that your love, in some small way, has contributed to their incredible character and perhaps has guided them to find one another. And a particular shout out to John Watson. For he loves them the most of all I have met, perhaps even better than I.” She held back a sob and looked to Molly. “I love you Molly Everett. Jesus, that’s going to take some getting used to. And Callum, I love you as well. These last few months would have felt impossible had it not been for the three of you. You have healed me and I am so honored to know you. A small toast to incredible people, incredible evenings and incredible beverages. Drink up!”

Glasses clinked together, the quiet slosh of liquid filling the room.

 

 

-

The disc jockey came on over the microphone, one headphone pushed back behind his ear. Molly and Callum stood and walked to the center of the floor, where a large space had been left so others could dance. A bright song began to pour the speakers. It reminded John of Christmas and laughter and the smell of chai tea. Everyone began to clap in unison, and Callum grasped Molly’s hand.

He spun her, her curls billowing in her wake, and then, before John’s eyes, Callum began to dance. Not a hug and wobble, not an awkward two step or a waltz. He and Molly were coordinated. They had choreographed a dance.

John laughed as Callum picked Molly up and slung her around his hip and through his legs. He dipped her forward, slow and steady, her legs sinking between his, and he planted a tender kiss on her chest. A laugh rippled through her ribcage and escaped from her tilted neck, dancing out of her mouth and into the room as one of the most joyous sounds John had ever heard. The two moved flawlessly, Callum tall and strong and Molly agile and certain. Her dress was a streak of white and matched the permanent grin on Callum's face.

He glanced to Jane, standing next to him at the edge of the floor and she had her hand clapped over her mouth.

“Did you…?” John managed between the strong claps of his calloused hands.

“I had _no_ idea. How incredible is this?!”

The song ended, and Molly was wrapped tightly in Callum’s arms. John was certain there was no better place for her to be.

The couple looked up to find his eyes. They swept their hands towards them, calling their best friends onto the floor. John quirked his eyebrow at Jane and dramatically extended his hand, taking a deep bow.

Jane winked mischievously. John grinned, huge and bright, as they took their places on the floor. Jane sat in chair placed dead center of the floor and John stood beside her, his back to her and arms folded across her chest. She crossed her legs, and the song began.

The entire room began to laugh and whoop as the first notes of the song came on. John began to circle her; she tried her hardest not to laugh as the man gave her a sexy look each time he passed, while she sang the first verse from her seat in the chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs, waving her finger in the air. She found her feet, and John walked straight up to her until their noses were nearly touching, using his hands to outline the shape of Jane’s body. She gave him a shove in the center of his chest, hardly enough to push him far, but he feigned a look of shock. Jane continued to sing, and John stripped himself of his jacket, rolling up his sleeves, hounds tooth suspenders bright against his plain white button up. Egan, Violet, and Jess cat-called from the floor. Molly and Callum were nearly bent in half, eyes nearly pinched shut from laughter. Jane dragged her French manicured hands across John’s chest, doing a small twist of her hips as she lowered herself closer to the floor. John placed his hand over hers on his chest, pulling it away, and twisting her as she worked her back up. Jane nestled her back into John’s chest, and they did a small two step together that way, his arm wrapped around her shoulder and interlocking with her hand at her hip. She unwrapped herself and dropped John’s hand, then sat him down in the chair forcibly, spinning her way to the back. Jane grabbed his shoulders with her fingers, leaning in close to his ear, and continued to sing. Her right hand found its way into his mussed hair, giving a gentle tug until his neck was exposed, then she let go, taking a seat in his lap, arm wrapped around him, as the song ended.

The room burst into applause, laughter, and whistles. John grinned at Jane. All the boys gave him a thumbs up. He found Sherlock towards the back of the crowd. If John wasn’t mistaken, he could swear the man appeared flustered. Jane’s plan entirely. He winked at the wonderful girl as she got up from his lap, grabbed his hand, and offered a deep curtsy.

The next tune came on, and the dance floor flooded. Jane yanked Molly’s hand with enthusiasm.

“IT’S OUR SONG!”

Molly laughed. “I know, you silly girl, I requested it!”

Jane grinned, and the girls proceeded to hop around the dance floor like teenagers at their first show.

“I love you so much, Molly. I’m so happy for you.” Jane managed through the sound of the music and other people singing.

“I love you, Jane. You know I do.”

“Best day ever?”

“Best day.”

 

 

-

John wrapped a napkin around his fresh drink and turned to observe the dance floor. Violet, precious with her seven month belly, was dancing with her back against Egan’s chest. John watched as his teammate kissed her shoulder and nestled his chin into her neck. Jasper was chatting Jess up. He had played at the Duke and Duchess during their week break, and apparently had taken quite a liking to her. Violet was pleased; if anyone had to date her sister, she would prefer Jasper. It was Rhys she had to keep an eye on. B was dancing with two younger children: one perched on his hip, the other with their hand clasped in his.

Sherlock stood against the wall speaking with Wesley. John smiled as he watched Sherlock’s expressions, thankful that Wesley was the one with his back to John. Sherlock lifted his drink to his lips, and in the time he tilted his head back, lifted his eyes to John over the rim of his glass. John quirked an eyebrow, _shall I intervene?_ And Sherlock gave the briefest of nods. John’s breathing went shallow, and he made a vain attempt to bring himself back down as he casually crossed the room in Sherlock’s direction. He ran a hand through his hair, and kept his eyes on Sherlock. Soon he found himself between the two boys, listening in on the chatter.

“Most of my programming has been done for non-profit purposes. I’m not really looking to make money from my technological abilities.”

Sherlock hummed, pretending to be interested. John squelched the chuckle rising from his chest. He watched the man intently, roving over the features exposed to him. His dark hair was pushed back and away from his face, his black suit making it appear even darker than it did on the stage at Marylebone. He held his drink steadily in his hand. He was not an easily shaken man, nor a man with many fidgets. John looked down to see a slight bounce of his knee and smiled to himself. Not many. Sherlock’s eyes were bluer in the lighting, sharp and analytical. He was frightfully intelligent. John felt his lungs constricting as he glanced at the pale expanse of his neck, focus falling on the beautiful pulse point below his ear. His skin looked cooler there, the veins and arteries melding together underneath his flesh. John was so tempted to take a gentle and tentative step forward and caress the soft skin behind Sherlock’s ear with his thumb. Sherlock turned and his eyes bore into John’s, flicking back and forth. His dark brows were furrowed together in frustration, and John felt himself being plucked apart piece by piece, and did not know whether he loved it or hated it. Wesley had been summoned elsewhere, but John hadn’t noticed.

“Hello, John.” Sherlock finally murmured. John watched his face relax before his eyes.

“Sherlock.” John gave a gentle nod, allowing himself to soak in that gorgeous cupid’s bow and a pair of lush lips.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Thoroughly. As you can tell.”

John chuckled. “Your piece this afternoon was stunning. It was so beautifully Molly. It was brilliant. Thank you.”

Sherlock smiled, distant demeanor beginning to melt away. “She is so easy to write for. So much spirit.”

John hummed in agreement. “She is an incredible woman.”

“Your speech…”

John looked up at Sherlock, waiting for the end of the trailing sentence. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Did you cry?”

“I do no such thing.”

“Forgive me, but I don't believe you. Not for one second.”

“You would be the first.”

“Doubtful.”

“And what makes you say that?” Sherlock’s voice was gentle, nearly tender, in its questioning.

“If anyone has seen or heard you perform, they must know you feel quite a lot. Perhaps too much.”

“There isn’t necessarily a direct correlation between creative abilities and one's ability to experience emotions.”

“Shut up. I saw you on that stage, Sherlock. No one can do what you have done and be incapable of feeling. We can debate all evening. You are beautiful and you must feel beautiful and terrifying things, and everything you do is a direct testament to that.”

Sherlock stared and John cursed himself. Five drinks may have been too many for this early in the evening. The brunette’s lips parted, and then closed again. The air between them shifted and John could have sworn a magnetic field had developed, because hadn’t Sherlock just come closer?

The song changed. It was one of John’s favorites, a beautiful, acoustic version of a popular radio hit.

“Sherlock…” John looked up, willing himself to be unwavering in his actions.

“Yes, John?” Did he look eager, or was that John’s mind playing tricks on him?

“Would you care to… May I please have this dance?”

John had three seconds of the beautiful smile taking over Sherlock’s mouth before Irene stumbled into him.

“Sorry, John Watson.” Irene giggled, and then looked a bit ill. John could have socked her in her gorgeous, red mouth. Damn her.

“Sherlock. May we go home now?” Sherlock looked torn, and John smiled. _At least I have that._ “I feel awful. Wanna crawl in bed,” she slurred as she rested her cheek against Sherlock’s chest. The man sighed, ran a hand through Irene’s hair, and gave John an apologizing expression. “Yes, of course, Irene. Go find your coat.” She stumbled away towards the round tables.

“I…” Sherlock began. John dug his phone out of his pocket and handed it over.

“Don’t apologize. You have nothing to apologize for. Maybe we can reschedule?” John knew his voice was far too hopeful, but he couldn’t help himself. This man had possessed far too many of his spare thoughts, and he would be damned if he didn’t at least try to address it.

Sherlock smiled and ducked his head as he plugged in his information. He handed the phone back to John.

“Sherlock Holmes? Do you honestly think I know another Sherlock?”

The man laughed aloud, a rich sound that washed over John’s entire body. “You never know.”

Irene came back to his side, wrapping her arm around Sherlock’s and resting her head against his arm.

“Well I suppose we’re off. John…”

“Yes. It has been a pleasure, Sherlock. Be safe this evening.”

Irene gave a weak and wobbling wave, and they went to find Molly and Callum to offer their congratulations and goodbyes.

John stood and stared at his phone. He grinned. He felt her next to him before even looking up.

“Oh, John. How wonderful.”

“You can thank yourself for making me so desirable.” He winked at Jane and planted a quick kiss to her cheek. “What about you? Met anyone nice?”

“I danced with Rhys Rex earlier.”

John blanched and began to shake his head. “No, Jane, _no_ , he is not allowed!”

Jane laughed. “Callum said you’d flip. It’s nothing. I’m not going to date that guy. He’s a punkass. Hot as _hell_ , but such a prat.”

John laughed, and then had a thought. “Have you met B, then?”

“B?”

John grinned and hooked his arm through hers, hunting the crowd for the ever-admirable B Collins.

 

 

-

It had been five days since the wedding. Five days since John had nearly danced with otherworldly Sherlock Holmes, seen his perfect skin blush with John’s compliments, watched that mouth sip on scotch, witnessed those analytical eyes.

John sat at the table with his hands in his hair. How had he thought, in his slightly inebriated state, that Sherlock Holmes was reachable? The man was nearly an intangible idea, too beautiful and too much to be touched, coaxed, or summoned. John stared down at the contact information on his phone. He had no idea where to start or what to say. What if Sherlock had just been kind and offered John his number so as to not hurt his feelings? John shook his head. Sherlock wouldn’t do something if he didn’t want to. At least, he didn’t seem the type to do what others wanted simply because _they_ wanted it.

He went back to his contact list. He pushed the green button and pressed the phone to his ear.

“Yes, I’d like to place an order for take away, please.”

 

 

-

Sherlock walked in to the smell of coconut, cilantro, and peanuts. The tiny bell hanging from the door hinge jingled faintly. He approached the counter.

“Hello, Prim. I’m here to pick up a take-away order.” The lady behind the counter smiled at him and disappeared into the kitchen. The door hinge bell jingled again, a blast of cold billowing in as the wind whistled through the closing door.

He turned and stared at the man in the doorway.

“Sherlock?”

“John. Hi.”

“How are you? I’m so sorry I haven't contacted you, I was just –“

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

“Don’t worry, I-”

“So nervous you wouldn’t-”

Sherlock stared, eyes widening. John stood, fidgeting with the hem of his coat. Sherlock ran his eyes across John’s windswept hair, his eyes, a blue more intense than he had witnessed before, perhaps because his navy jumper was peeking out of his black leather jacket. 

“Mr. Holmes?” Sherlock blinked, once, twice, then turned back to the counter. He handed Prim his check card and snagged his dinner.

“You too, huh?”

Sherlock smiled. “Best Thai take away on this side of the city.”

“Agreed. So much better the later it is, too.”

“Yes…” Sherlock trailed off.

“Listen, I know you probably have something planned for this evening, but, well. If you don’t…” Sherlock watched as John straightened his shoulders and laughed inwardly as he _witnessed John Watson plucking up courage._ “I was just going to sit on the couch and watch telly, so if you wanted company, I’d love to have some?”

Sherlock laughed, and nodded. “Love some.”

 

 

-

John put the kettle on and willed his heart to _chill the fuck out, jesus h. christ._ He plucked two mugs from the dark cabinets and set them on the countertop.

“Earl Grey all right?” he called from the kitchen. He heard Sherlock arranging their food on the coffee table in the sitting room.

“Yes, that’d be nice. Thank you.” John shivered. He felt like that voice filled every empty space, even the tiny clouds inside electrons as they floated about within atoms.

“I’m guessing you like it black or with two sugars. Are either correct or am I completely off point?”

“Two sugars is correct.” John glanced over his shoulder to see Sherlock leaning on the wall that connected the kitchen to the sitting room, watching him. He was smirking.

“What?” John asked.

“Just nice to not be the only observer in a room for once.”

John smiled at him, and nodded, silently agreeing. The kettle began to yell and John took it off, pouring the boiling water over the tea. He picked up the glasses and carried them past Sherlock into the sitting room, two coasters already set in place for them. They sat on the sofa, Sherlock folding himself up into a tiny space. John smiled at his navy and red argyle socks peeking out from the hems of his blue jeans. The telly was on, but it was barely a whisper. John scooped up some of his thai basil chicken.

“Tell me about you,” John quietly asked.

The man turned his attention from his plate to John. His hair was wilder tonight, somehow. Longer maybe, but not pushed as far back from his face. Soft ringlets were starting to form near his ears. He wore a white t-shirt that dipped low into his chest, exposing the lovely construction of his sternum and collarbones. Sherlock’s eyes widened a bit, and the right corner of his mouth pulled into a half-smile.

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything and everything you want to tell me.”

It took them nearly three hours to finish their takeaway, and by the end of it, John was in far too deep.

 

 

-

Sherlock lingered by the door, casual conversation still passing between them. John allowed his eyes to rest on Sherlock’s eyes, cheekbones, full lips, expressive brows, laughter lines as he failed miserably at saying goodbye. The man was beautiful. John had never seen a human like him; moderately alien and untouchable in appearance, features exaggerated and sharp, with a demeanor so utterly opposite. He was gentle, kind, timid even. Painfully polite and generous, easily intelligent. John, in most situations, would feel intimidated by a man like Sherlock, a man who was everything good, whole and wonderful, but all he could process was the fact that he wanted to be the source of his laughter. He wanted to pull every expression from Sherlock’s face – shock, fury, confusion, bewilderment, amazement, ecstasy. Oh… Well, that was new.

Not entirely new. Not appallingly new. Not earth-shattering, deal-breaking, but-dear-god-I’m-straight-new. John wasn’t wrapped up in that, not at the moment. Sherlock was shrugging himself into his coat and smiling small into his chest, like he’d just taken hostage of the most precious, perfect secret to keep all for himself. John stepped forward on impulse, extending his hand to caress Sherlock’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. It wasn’t a gesture that should have filled every crevice of his body, but he felt electrocuted all the same. Sherlock’s face fell quiet. His eyes grew the smallest degree larger on his face, his mouth in a straight but curious line, a tiny furrow forming between those wonderfully expressive brows. “John?” It was a soft sound, a tender endearment. John had never heard his name spoken in such a way, an equivalent of “love” or “sweetheart.” Sherlock spoke his name like he had done it for years, like it was slotted in the common vocabulary center of his mind palace, an autocorrect for a million other words. John’s heart fluttered at the single syllable. He smiled and tucked a stray lock of Sherlock’s mostly cropped hair from his forehead. This was different.

“May I see you again?” He’d figure out the logistics later. He didn’t care. All he knew was that this, whatever this was, whatever Sherlock was, this was something brand new, an adventure, a sensation and feeling that he had never felt coursing through him. It wasn’t a conquest; it wasn’t something to divulge in merely because it was at present, an opportunity. It was a gift. This man in his foyer was something incredible and John wanted to know him. Every bone, every freckle, every tiny scar, every crescendo he wrote, every grain of rice that left every takeaway box, every laugh and every tear, and every single thing Sherlock felt was important enough to say, God, John wanted to _hear_ it. Wanted to savor it and hold it and keep it forever.

“I’d like that very much, yes.” A blush fell across Sherlock’s cheeks as he twisted the handle to the front door. They both stepped out into the cool of the winter night. Sherlock wrapped his scarf tightly around his neck, buttoned up his coat. John stood in jeans and a sweatshirt, socked feet quickly growing cold through the chilly pavement. “Goodnight, John.”

Sherlock began to trot down the steps, pulling his coat tighter around his thin frame, and turned right towards the main street, likely to hail a cab home. John watched him rub a hand around his forearm and took two tentative steps down his stairs. Then he was on the sidewalk, jogging towards him, and he wrapped his hand round Sherlock’s elbow, giving him a gentle tug. Sherlock turned to face him, a sweet surprise unfolding on his face. “I just…” John slipped one hand to the small of Sherlock’s back, the other to his jaw, cupping his face, fingertips brushing into the dark hair. To his surprise, Sherlock unfurled his hands from his coat pockets, one set of cold fingers finding the warm pulse of John’s neck and the other gripping his hip. They met in a tentative way; John felt Sherlock everywhere around him, not just in the places they connected. He was warm; every breath felt like it was captured in the space around them, completely still and unmoving. John was sure he was in a vortex; all he could comprehend was how close he was to Sherlock, that their lips were touching, that he smelled of Thai leftovers, endorphins, and earthy pine. The hand cupping Sherlock’s face pulled him closer, a little firmer, a little more confident. John felt like he was finally crawling back into his own body; he was tired of seeing everything as it was happening, he just wanted to kiss Sherlock and feel it in his spine, in his toes, in every miserable, aching atom of his body. Their lips met again, both with more fervor, more intention. Sherlock’s fingers dug deeper into John’s hip, pulling him flush to his body, his other arm shifting to wrap around John’s neck, heat radiating from every inch of him. Suddenly John felt dizzy and a new sort of need hit him deep in his chest, following through the veins and arteries of his body, a new energy filling him up. John wrapped an arm across Sherlock’s back, resting it at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. Could he melt into him? He was damn well going to try. They were snogging right there, in the middle of the street, and John didn’t give a flying fuck. This tender, perfect being was wrapped up in his arms; John’s hand was slowly moving down Sherlock’s left side, counting the ribs as he went, lips moving in a languid and perfect unison. He was in flames. They were burning blue together, John could feel it. He pulled away, reluctantly, and stared into the eyes of this creature that now held John Watson’s complete and undivided attention. Sherlock’s lips were pink and parted, arousal and surprise mixed together in lethal combination on his face. John knew then that this was it. He was it. Fuck.

“I wouldn’t sleep for days if I didn’t …”

Sherlock leaned forward yet again, and gave John a soft kiss. “Gave” was the perfect word, a small present: _here, John, just for you. I wrapped it just the way you like it._ First the top lip, then the bottom, and John couldn’t help but think how well they fit together, all the way down to the shape of their mouths. He felt a tingling sensation on his scalp as his hairs stood on end. The wind blew and the cold hit him hard, practically bare-footed and no longer enveloped in a Sherlock vacuum.

“Go inside. You’ll catch cold.” Sherlock kissed John’s left cheek, slowly, deliberately. “You have my number. I’ll see you soon.” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand as he turned to head back down the sidewalk.

“Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Goodnight, John.”

John stood in his socks until the brilliant man turned the corner. He hustled up his steps and slipped inside the warm apartment. Once safely locked into the heat, John sat on the stair, hands in his hair, and laughed.

He’d just kissed a man. Properly kissed a man. With no alcohol involved, no dares from his mates, no lady in between them.

Sherlock lingered on his lips. No woman compared.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for Molly and Callum's dance: [Ed Shereen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lp-EO5I60KA)
> 
>  **Playlist**  
>  During John and Jane's speeches: _Home_ by Gabrielle Aplin  
>  Molly and Callum's dance: _I Hope This Gets To You_ by The Daylights  
>  Jane and John's dance: _Say My Name_ by Destiny's Child  
>  Jane and Molly's dance: _Shake it Off_ by Taylor Swift  
>  John and Sherlock's almost dance/first kiss: _Latch_ [acoustic] by Sam Smith
> 
>  
> 
> *Xenia Hall is a dormitory on the Imperial College Campus, located two miles from Waterloo Station.  
> *Violet Scott [Egan's wife] and Jess Walden are sisters. Casting for Violet Scott is Olivia Munn.


	8. Scintilla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **scin·til·la**  
>  sinˈtilə/  
> noun
> 
> a tiny trace or spark of a specified quality or feeling.  
> synonyms: particle, iota, jot, whit, atom, speck, bit, trace, ounce, shred, crumb, fragment, grain, drop, spot, modicum, hint, touch, suggestion, whisper, suspicion; 
> 
> **Hi, my precious dears**  
>  So sorry for the delayed post. It's been a bit of a crazy week. Here is Chapter 7; I hope it finds you well. If you aren't well, I hope it makes your life the tiniest bit better. You deserve it. <3  
> xox hamishh

[7]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Callum!” Molly tapped her fingers on the countertop impatiently.

“Callum!” She was hollering through the exotic suite now, listening as the breeze billowed in the open doors to the patio.

Callum appeared in the bedroom door, shirtless and only dressed in pants.

“I was just about to take a shower. Alright?” His forehead was wrinkled in concern seeing as Molly raising her voice was a bit of a rarity.

Molly traced his abdomen with her eyes down to where the truly delicious vee met the elastic waistband of his black pants, slung low on his hips.

“Yeah…” she whispered, dazed. Callum raised a smug eyebrow.

“Did you detect my nakedness or was that just a coincidence?”

Molly gave him a cheeky grin. “You know what we say about coincidence.” She assessed him once again, then looked back to the screen.

“Come look.”

“Mols, put that away. We’re on our honeymoon, for chrissake!”

“Yes, but our photographer posted some photos!”

“I know what you looked like, and I will never _ever_ forget.” Callum offered.

Molly responded with a small, pleading look.

“Yes, alright. But if I look, you’re locking that damn thing up after. And meeting me in the shower.”

She nodded enthusiastically, her long, brown hair tied up in a messy knot on the top of her head. She felt it bob as she moved, and giggled. Callum stood behind her, chest against her back, and she tried her best to ignore the warmth between his legs. Her face flushed, relishing his taut arms reaching over her shoulders to flip through the photographs. He hummed, and Molly felt it where his sternum met her spine. She closed her eyes and breathed him in: sweat and sunscreen and earth. The boy smelled like fresh rain and clover no matter when he went, and she loved it. She let her head fall back into the curve of his shoulder.

“These are gorgeous, Mols. You are so fucking gorgeous.”

She tucked her head further into his chest, turning to place a whisper of a kiss on his arm. He planted one on the top of her head in return. Callum continued to mull through the photos.

“So gorgeous.” Molly whispered. The breeze gusted through the room, teasing her flyaways.

“It was. The cabin looks so amazing in a fresh layer of snow. Can’t believe she got one of you with your hand outstretched.” He paused on one image, Molly standing on the fresh powder, holding her bouquet of forest foliage, and wrapped in the gorgeous shawl Jane had knit for her. Her mouth was open in a laugh, her eyes barely squinted. She turned her head up to him, studying his face.

“Was it alright?” He implored, eyes wide but not quite worrisome. Molly’s brow furrowed in response. What could he possibly mean? The ceremony? The venue? The honeymoon? The sex? She smirked at that thought, biting her lip in an attempt to keep from being clever. It seemed like a solemn moment for Callum, a genuine question heavy on his mind.

“Is that a real question?” She asked, murmuring into his neck. She kissed the hollow of his throat, the soft skin stretched across his sternum. She felt his hand cradling the back of her skull, thumb rubbing lovingly against her ear.

“Of course it is.” His voice was firm. She pulled away and looked back and up. His expression was curious and set.

“It wasn’t alright. It was more than alright. It was perfect. It was the best day of my life, and likely will be until the day I die. The venue was gorgeous, our best man and maid of honor were phenomenal and our parents cried and I cried and you cried and you… you were gorgeous, Callum, with your puffy eyes and brilliant smile. The way you looked at me when I set foot in that aisle…” Emotion froze the words in her throat; a lump expanded, sore and dull and wonderful. “You’re perfect.” She choked out, eyes brimming and wet. She tilted her chin up to meet Callum’s mouth, his lips warm and wet and gentle on hers. His hand found the line of her jaw, his fingertips woven into the hair at the nape of her neck. She whispered his name, soft and still against his pliant mouth, and a quiet moan left his throat. He pulled her up from the chair roughly, wrapping one arm around her waist, the other around her backside and she felt her knees go weak.

“Shower. Now,” he growled into her ear. She needn’t be told twice. He gave her arse a hard spank as she made her way to the bathroom, peeling her clothes off layer by layer and dropping them to the floor. They lay forgotten as steam filled the room.

-

 

 

 **Hi.  
** _Who is this? SH_  
 **Well, you leave little to the imagination.**  
 **Ehhh. You might remember me. Shortish, dullish, blondeish. In my defense, possibly a good kisser?**  
 _Hardly dull, and not as short as you think you are. Hi. SH_  
 _And yes, I can offer confirmation and firm evidence on behalf of the good kisser assumption. SH_  
 _Phenomenal, even. Perhaps. SH_  
 **And now paired with a full blown ego. Careful there. I’m a different man when I’m feeling on.**  
 _On? Please, do expound further. SH_  
 **On. On point. In my element. Confident. Cocky. Certain. Sure. Need more synonyms?**  
 _No, I believe that is sufficient. SH_  
 _Were you on the other night? The turn of events most certainly fits your description. SH_  
 **I suppose so, yes. Also, do you always manage to sound brilliant in every text you send? Won’t lie, the intelligence is quite intimidating. And very attractive.**  
 _This is my typical vernacular, yes. Will it suffice? SH_  
 **God, yes.**  
 **I don’t mean to be forward, Sherlock, but I must admit something.**  
 _Go on then. SH_  
 **I meant what I said about seeing you again.**  
 _I did agree. Do you not remember this discussion? SH_  
 **Forgive me. It all blurred together; I was a bit distracted.**  
 **May I see you again soon?**  
 **As in… tonight, perhaps?**  
 _John Watson, are you chatting me up? SH_  
 **Is it working?**  
 _Brilliantly. SH_  
 **Well then?**  
 _I had intended to practice in the studio tonight… I have a show opening next month. SH_  
 **When do you typically wrap up?**  
 _Late. SH_  
 **A time would actually be helpful, believe it or not.**  
 _It depends on the quality of practice, the composition paired with it and the complexity of the choreography. Some evenings, I consider myself finished at 9, others at 4. SH_  
 **In the morning?**  
 _Yes. Late, as I said. SH_  
 **Is it unheard of to hold an audience during rehearsals?**  
 _You want to watch me dance? SH_  
 **Yes.**  
 _Until four in the morning? SH_  
 **As late as you will allow me to stay?**  
 _Are you certain of that? I won’t talk for hours on end, I will not tolerate interruptions, and I do not take breaks. SH_  
 **That sort of concentration sounds like something that ought not be missed. I promise I will not interfere.**  
 _I don’t typically rehearse in front of others. SH_  
 **And by typically, is it safe to assume you mean never?**  
 _Yes. SH_  
 **Well, I would never request to be an exception. Maybe dinner later this week?**  
 _No. It’s all right. You can… I wouldn’t mind if you visited. I’ll leave the doors to the venue open. SH_  
 **You’re sure? Really, if another day would be better...**  
 _Please. Come. SH_

-

 

 

John stared at the dimly lit mobile. It shone brightly in the dark of his bedroom, the green and gray speech bubbles scrolling as John read through the conversation for the seventh time. He closed his eyes and pulled the feeling of Sherlock’s hands on him from his memory. Remembering those generous, giving, lush lips against his was pure misery. He rolled to his side, shoving his face into a pillow and groaned. John had hardly slept the last two nights, doing his very best to properly recite the entire kiss in agonizing detail so that it was committed to his long term memory. Sherlock’s skin had been so soft to the touch. He remembered his hand underneath Sherlock’s ridiculous trench, counting the ribs as he went, heat radiating from every bit of him. The man was a fucking magnet, and there was nothing John could do now but to be completely and utterly drawn to him.

He grinned into the pillow, already keenly awaiting the image of Sherlock on stage. He had the entire day to wait, with no prior plans or engagements. John shoved down the covers and emerged from his nest of sheets and warm comforters. He ran a hand through his sleep mussed hair and went to the kettle, beaming every step of the way.

-

 

 

Sherlock sat in his chair in his flat’s sitting room, light from the morning pouring in through the vast amounts of glass serving as one of the walls. He held a steaming cuppa in his right hand, left perched under his chin in thought.

He uncrossed and crossed his legs again in an attempt to recover the lack of blood flow in his left; he had begun to feel the pinpricks in his foot. He sighed aloud into the empty room.

Sherlock acknowledged the heaviness in the pit of his stomach with a bit of dislike. This feeling was foreign to him, and was becoming more and more difficult to identify. It was a treacherous line between anxiety and exhilaration, and Sherlock couldn’t decide which it was more of.

He had planned to rehearse at Marylebone early in the day, staying as late as he deemed necessary in order to accomplish the desired results. However, knowing John’s attendance was now to be accounted for, he felt an odd need to begin later and stay later. Part of him feared that John would decide it was a trivial idea, coming to watch a single man, one he hardly knows, dance for hours on end; how could that possibly serve as an entertaining activity for an ordinary individual? Sherlock shook his head, growling in frustration. He was overthinking this entire situation, he knew. John wouldn’t come if he did not wish to.

Determining this, Sherlock took the last sip of his tea before standing and gathering his things. He wrapped his scarf around his neck and laced up his trainers.

If John showed up to watch his rehearsal, fantastic. If he didn’t… Well. _Damn._

-

 

 

 _So, about B…_  
 **Yes?** _  
You’re right. He’s quite nice._  
 **Of course he is. I wouldn’t have introduced you otherwise.  
Don’t you trust me, Jesep?  
** _Course I do. You know I do. You just also know that… well… this is new. Different. Quite weird.  
_ **He is a good man, Jane. If it doesn’t work out, oh well. But damnit if there isn’t a better suitor out there for working your way back onto the pitch. D’you know what I mean?  
** _Clear as crystal. We’re going to dinner tonight. Possibly a film.  
_ **That’s wonderful. Tell me how it goes?  
** _Course. And Sherlock? How’s that?  
…I’m assuming a delay should mean that you’re squealing like me, and trying to construct a sentence that is as close to indifferent as possible?  
John?  
Oh god. Have I gotten it horribly wrong? Oh John, I’m so sorry.  
_ **No, don’t be ridiculous. You’re fine. You aren’t horribly wrong. Spot on, in fact. As always. Sorry, the kettle boiled.  
** _Well?!  
_ **Hahah. We’ve chatted.  
** _John Watson, you will relinquish all information right now, or so help me God…  
_ **I’m seeing him tonight.  
** _SQUEEEEE! WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME!?!?!  
Wow. That happened quickly. You guys had hardly spoken at the wedding…  
_ **Ah. Well. About that.  
** _……?!?!  
_ **We sort of bumped into each other at the Thai place a few nights ago. And I invited him over, just in case he wanted company.  
** _“Just in case he wanted company.” PLEASE. You are pining so hard it’s ABSURD. WHAT HAPPENED?  
_ **Could you please try and not make me sound like a fifteen year old girl? Thanks.  
** _Okay. Okay, I’m sorry. But seriously. What happened? How was it? Was he dry and boring? Or far too egotistical? Snarky? Clever? God, I’ll bet he’s so clever.  
_ **It was fantastic. He’s fantastic.  
** _Oh. You’re smitten.  
_ **Correct.  
** _Did you… I mean… did anything…?  
_ **Yeah.  
** _ONE WORD IS MURDER, JOHN. Please tell me? Pleaaaaase?  
_ **Yeah, well, we kissed.  
** _……  
…………  
OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD.  
What was it like? What was he like? Did he initiate it? No, of course not, you did! TELL ME.  
_ **Why do you assume I did?!  
** _Because. You’re JOHN WATSON. Sexy captain of a world famous rugby league, blonde spitfire, snarky and clever and confident and fantastic. Who can help but be drawn to you?  
Was it wonderful, John? I am grinning ear to ear for you. I so am.  
_ **It was perfect. (And you think I'm sexy?)  
** _And what is happening tonight? (I’m still squealing, by the way. Like a pig to slaughter.)  
Oh hush.  
_ **Fantastic vision, thanks. I’m going to watch him rehearse.  
** _You’re going to watch him dance?  
_ **Yes.  
** _And he’s letting you?  
_ **Well it’s not exactly an invitation if I do it without permission, is it? Nor is it sexy. Christ, I’m not a stalker.  
** _I’m only asking because Molly says he rarely dances his pieces even in front of his company. That’s… a big deal, John. Huge, if you ask me._  
 **Probably not. I was a bit forward. Might just be humoring me.  
** _I don’t believe that for a second. Enjoy your night. Lunch tomorrow to catch up? I could use real food, if you want to bring me some? You’re the besttttttt!_ **  
Of course. What time is your lunch break?  
** _11:48-12:50.Remember how to get to the school?  
_ **After the nightmare it took to find it last time? You bet your arse I do. I was covered in red and green glitter for WEEKS.** _  
*giggles* perfect. Can’t wait to hear! See you then!  
_ **Be safe tonight.**  
 _Always, John Watson. Always. You, too._  
-

 

 

John yanked off the jumper in defeat. He hadn’t the faintest of what he ought to wear. John was certain he had not fretted this much over his first date, or _any_ date for that matter. Was this a date? He sighed, exasperated. Yanking out his mobile, he thumbed out a text.

**Sorry to bother you. I hope I’m not interrupting dinner quite yet. Blue or gray?**   
_Oh god, you too? I haven’t any idea! Help!_   
_And blue, god, what an idiotic question. Your eyes look fantastic when you wear blue._   
**You ought to wear the violet skirt. And thanks. As do yours.**   
_Oh, really?_   
**Come off it. Yeah, you ought to. Really. It’s your favorite color and it’s lovely.**   
_Navy blue one with the gray elbow patches._   
**Done. Thank god for you.**

He pulled on the blue sweater over a tan checked button down, adjusting the collar so it rested properly above the crew neck. He pulled on the nicest pair of gray slacks he had, and laced up his Doc Martens. He assessed himself in the mirror, tightening and loosening his watch band, running a hand through his hair to muss it just a bit. He stepped back, titled his head, and smirked. This was as good as it was going to get.

He grabbed his jacket, gloves, helmet and keys, and locked up the flat.

-

 

 

He unbuckled the chinstrap of his helmet and stored it in the side bag. As he crossed the street, John peeled off his gloves, biting the tip of his middle finger and pulling the rest of his digits out. He jogged into the café just a block from Marylebone and purchased two hot drinks – three shots of espresso in his and an earl grey with two sugars for Sherlock. As he paid and kindly thanked the barista, his nerves began to twist up. Was this idiotic? How unattractive was it, to have someone want to watch you dance? Would he make Sherlock uncomfortable?

Surely the man knew John was smitten – with his dancing, with his voice, with his appearance, but mostly with that insufferably unpredictable way he is the opposite of _everything_ John originally believed him to be. To sit and watch him dance for hours on end would be a most excellent way to spend his free evening, especially compared to rotting in front of the telly or purchasing another book on his kindle, only to crash ten minutes into it.

He stood in front of the glass doors, a moment’s worth of hesitation. He saw the light of the theater pouring out into the lobby from the double doors. John nodded, plucking up courage, and walked inside.

-

 

 

Sherlock was in his fifth rotation of the choreography when he heard a seat unfold in the third row of the theatre. He ignored the inane swooping in his stomach and continued on. He closed his eyes and briefly wondered if an entire theatre can feel suddenly warm and plush and whole just at the mere presence of one man. He wouldn’t put it past John Watson to be capable of such a feat.

He caught tiny glimpses of John’s navy jumper, his sandy blonde hair, his position on the very edge of his seat, elbows resting on the back of the one in front of him. Sherlock felt his eyes boring into him and was shocked to find that, unlike every time before, the witness made him feel invincible rather than impossible.

Sherlock closed his eyes again and drown in the warmth of the lights, the smell of earl grey, the sweat dripping down his legs and that deep, impenetrable blue of John's eyes.

The rest of the rehearsal was done flawlessly. If such a thing had existed to Sherlock Holmes prior to John Watson, it was news to the brunette moving seamlessly, intentionally, perfectly across the stage.

-

 

 

John was crying. 

How? How could this man sing and yell and destroy and build and narrate the most stunning things John had ever thought to think, without ever saying a word, without ever pausing or stopping or resting or hell, maybe he wasn’t even breathing? All John knew was that this sight was ripping his heart out of his chest and wrapping it in warmth and everything perfectly lovely. He was perfectly lovely. Inhuman was by far the most inaccurate description of Sherlock Holmes he had ever heard.

Oh, he was human. His jaw set, his eyes closed in concentration, the muscles of his legs and arms contracting and releasing on demand, the way he swept and swallowed that entire fucking stage in four huge steps, the way he commanded attention without ever once having to ask for it, without having to leave the stage, leave the ground. He need not even leave the ground. He was so delicate in his strength; the most minute details did not escape John’s observation. The tiniest flick of his wrist, the slow release of his ankle from one position to another, the extension of his jaw up as his body shifted from one art form to another, seamlessly, the discreet flare of his nostrils lending the only hint at the amount of physical exertion he was indeed performing. The amount of discipline and rigor was breathtaking, and John was left awestruck at the way it was made to seem completely and totally effortless. 

Love at first sight was ridiculous. A childish concept and a shallow excuse for those who lust far more than they could ever love. But as John sat in that velvet lined seat, chin perched on his folded arms, tear tracks evident on his cheeks, he thought surely, though it was ridiculous and impossible, this was the closest he would ever come to it.

-

 

 

Sherlock toweled his face in a non-committal way. He had not turned to John; now that he was no longer dancing, he was terrified to. That was the most beautiful, consistent rehearsal he had ever had. That’s not something he would ever admit to lightly, and it shook him to his bones. How can one person make such a difference?

“Still awake, then?” He spoke, his back still to John.

“Yes.” John whispered. Sherlock felt the follicles on the back of neck prickle; not in dread, but in desire. John’s voice was so tender. Sherlock turned, before giving himself time to process, to face him.

It took every ounce of conscious effort to not suck in air at the sight of John, face damp and eyes swollen and red. He gave his best effort to provide a smirk, and barely managed.

“I brought you tea,” he murmured. He reached into the seat next to him to extract a to-go cup from the bundle of leather jacket and gloves; he had wrapped the beverage up to keep it warm. Sherlock felt dizzy, like he had gotten up far too fast after resting for an extended period of time. John stood and walked to the edge of the stage, extending the drink up into Sherlock’s hand. He took it dazedly; for a few moments he drank John in instead. He was beautiful; he wore gray trousers that hugged him across the hips and a navy blue sweater. The shirt tails of his tan, checked shirt covered his pockets. But it all paled in comparison to the sweet glow of his skin and the color of his irises, more blue than ever when paired with his damp, blonde lashes. Sherlock set the drink down and jumped easily from the stage, placing himself only centimeters from John.

“Hello,” Sherlock said.

“Hi,” John choked out. A red flushed his cheeks. John was embarrassed.

“I just wanted to inform you… Well. I’m quite glad you’re here.”

John scoffed, wiping his nose stubbornly with a crumpled napkin. He then placed his hands palm up and shrugged his shoulders: _why the hell would you want this mess of a man here?_

“I have never performed a rehearsal the way I did tonight.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Perfectly? I beg to differ. You are perfect. You’re so… I can’t imagine… how do you…” John’s eyes found Sherlock’s again. They fluttered back and forth, the lighting from the stage casting an angelic glow around the top of his head. John grinned in spite of his humiliation; how suiting the halo was.

And then Sherlock’s hand was at the nape of his neck, and his lips were on John’s and the captain was melting under the hot, damp touch of another, in Sherlock’s hallowed hall. He gasped against Sherlock’s mouth, breath leaving him in trembling exhales. The kiss stole every line of coherent thought in John’s skull. He could feel Sherlock in his skin, in his blood, in his bones. Had he ever wanted to be closer to a human in all his life? _No, I most certainly have not._ He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s bare ones, his t-shirt soaked through with sweat. He clutched the hem of it with one hand, slipped a hand underneath with the other. The warm wetness of Sherlock’s skin was glorious. John felt Sherlock’s hands in his hair, grasping the sides of his face. A soft whimper escaped the pair, from who, John would never know for certain. They were scrabbling, desperately, for purchase in one another: hands fisted in John’s sweater, legs slipping between knees, fingers intertwined in damp, dark hair. John and Sherlock slowly descended into a lazy pace, Sherlock pressed against the height of the stage, arms wrapped comfortably around John’s shoulders.

“I missed you. It’s only been two days. I had to ask Jane what to wear. What do you make of that?” John murmured through a smile pressing against Sherlock’s mouth. He planted another small kiss on the lush cupid’s bow. Sherlock chuckled; it was a deep, warm sound in his chest.

“I missed you as well, if we’re in the midst of making confessions.”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the way you speak. I must sound so unimpressive in comparison.” John trailed his lips across Sherlock’s cheek and jaw until he found the soft flesh near his ear. Sherlock huffed as John teased him lightly.

“Self-deprecation isn’t an admirable quality, John. And I hardly believe you to be unimpressive.”

“You moved me to tears without saying a word.”

“You do far more to me than I let on.”

John smirked, his light stubble rubbing against Sherlock’s cotton shirt.

“Is that so?” John kissed Sherlock’s collarbone through the fabric.

“Mm.” Sherlock hummed in affirmation.

John took a step back. “Are you finished for the night? I could keep watching another three or four hours, if you need to continue.” He smiled broadly at Sherlock.

“As I said, I’ve never had a rehearsal that clean before this evening; I feel satisfied. Perhaps I should bring you to every rehearsal and performance,” Sherlock mused.

John winked. “Be careful what you wish for. Hungry?”

“I suppose I should eat. What’s the time?”

“Eleven forty-seven. Plenty of places still open. What would you like?”

“Italian?”

“Yes. Did you drive, or…?”

“No.”

“Would you like a lift, then? You might want to bundle up…”

Sherlock glanced again at the leather jacket left in the auditorium seating. He grinned.

“Do you carry an extra helmet?”

“I do.”

“Then yes. I would like a lift. Please.”

John was beaming up at him, thrilled at the excitement plastered on Sherlock’s face. Had he never ridden a motorbike before?

“Will all your items fit cleanly in one bag?”

Sherlock leapt onto the stage, tossing in his slippers, towel, water bottle and pulling out a pair of sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt. He zipped the bag up and slung it over his shoulder.

“Do you mind if we stop by my flat? I’d like to at least shower and change, if possible.”

John felt his heart move into double time. “Of course,” grateful his voice came out evenly.

“Fantastic. It’s about seven blocks from here.”

-

 

 

John couldn’t lie. Sherlock pressed this close to him made certain things inevitable. His breathing had gone completely haywire; he felt like his flesh was melting where Sherlock’s arms wrapped around his middle, shamelessly, he might add; Sherlock’s entire front was flush with all of John’s back and it was painfully distracting.

“Just here, on the left!” Sherlock yelled through the whistling air and the plastic of their helmets. John signaled and parked, swinging out the kickstand and shutting the bike off. He turned to face Sherlock as he unfastened his helmet, and felt his stomach dip at the sight of Sherlock grinning obscenely, ruffling his hair in an attempt to reshape it.

“Well?” John asked.

“Exhilarating. You’re a decent driver.” Something in Sherlock’s expression changed, and John raised his eyebrows in curiosity.

“Quite attractive, you on that bike. Suiting.”

John quirked his left eyebrow and a smile tugged at the right corner of his mouth. Sherlock’s eyes darkened instantly at John’s expression.

“You think so? I dunno, Mols says it’s a little reckless, driving a motorbike. Is that suiting?” He was hardly looking for an honest answer; John was merely playing to rile Sherlock up. It was working. Sherlock took a step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“I would say you are a man who cares very little about what others think, and that yes, at times your craving of adrenaline could be interpreted as reckless. Of course, this conclusion is surmised on six interactions, only three of which contained conversing. However, one is able to deduce a great deal about you, John Watson, without ever needing to speak.”

“Tell me more.” John whispered. It was not a request; it was a demand. He gave Sherlock a gentle push to the door. Once inside, he pinned Sherlock to the nearest wall.

“You were saying?” he murmured into Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock’s back arched, pushing his body further into John’s. John yanked off his jacket and tossed it to the floor, along with his keys. Sherlock let out a shaky breath and began again:

“The first night we met, we hardly met.”

“The window.”

“Obviously. I had heard of you through Molly, but only pieced it together with the identification of Callum. I understand now the intensity of your eyes – you recognized me, felt some kind of way about me, dare I say attraction?” John ghosted a kiss across Sherlock’s mouth and smiled. “Yes, then, attraction. You were put off by Irene, unsure of her relationship to me, but dropped your eyes and continued as if nothing had happened. You spoke nothing of it to Callum or Molly, obviously fretting over them discovering, but why? You had previously identified as heterosexual, and indeed carry a reputation of being a very giving and satisfying lover, but only with women. The answer lies there, then. Why are you attracted to a man when you so love women, and if there were the possibility of your being bisexual, wouldn’t you have discovered it, working with a slew of highly attractive, by society’s standards, men? So I’m special then, special indeed, to make John Watson question his sexuality.”

John was torn between humility and adoration. Yes, he had nailed it on the head, struck through to the very core of John’s problem, pulled the weed at the base and discovered the root. Did Sherlock understand the significance of what he had just deduced? John pulled away to find Sherlock’s eyes. They were curious, intrigued, and, thankfully, gentle.

“That would appear to be the case, seeing as I can’t seem to keep my hands, eyes, thoughts off you.” John wanted to move past this point, as he had decided to do two days prior, and accept that for whatever reason, yes, Sherlock Holmes was a fantastic, gorgeous, perfect, brilliant exception. Sherlock pushed off the wall, now standing over John, and wrapped his hands around the captain’s waist. He kissed John’s hair, his temple, his brows, lids, nose and cheek. His words ghosted across John’s skin:

“You are a man of wonderful confidence. How could you possibly doubt the attraction was reciprocated?” He kissed John delicately on the corner of his mouth and pressed on.

“You stand tall, but not in order to feel bigger than others. You are proud, but humble. You are a man of careful thought, documentation, and emotion. You have endured a life of loss; your eyes speak of it, yes, but the artwork on your arms also lends itself to certain events, or perhaps people, rather than only being aesthetically pleasing. They are vibrant in color, suggesting the memories they document are not meant to be forgotten, but to be remembered and vividly.” Sherlock touched John’s chin with his fingertips, tracing the stubble. When had Sherlock seen his tattoos? “You are accustomed to being alone, but do not necessarily prefer it. Some of it has been done intentionally, your lady friends mostly, but others have been taken from you, likely without warning. Your love for those you care about is one of the fiercest I have ever witnessed: you take nothing and give everything and you do not resent others for it. You declare your love each day to those that are important to you. The men on your team are individuals of fantastic character, sound judgment, and you care for them as though they, too, are your blood.” John felt the tears pooling at his bottom lids, eager to spill over. “You are a man of gold, John Watson, yet believe yourself to be unworthy of so many things.” John watched Sherlock’s eyes glass over. “How can you possibly believe yourself unworthy? You are worthy of everything good. You are whole and right and rich and warm.”

John gave Sherlock a watery smile, and closed his eyes, leaning into Sherlock’s touch as he gently swiped away John’s tears.

“Our second date and you know everything there is to know about me. Aren’t you worried about next time? Won’t you be bored?” John tried his best to laugh, feeling raw and sliced open. It was terrifying and equally relieving; no romantic interest had even begun to address the things Sherlock laid out as pure fact.

“There is so much more to you than the first deduction, John. I’d like to see it all, if you’ll allow it.”

“Ah, but you’ve had six. Certain you still want to continue on? Like you said, I’m a bit of a mess.”

“You are not a mess; you are an enigma. One I would gladly invest in solving.”

“Sherlock Holmes, are you chatting me up?”

“God knows I’m trying.”

“Kiss me again, and I’ll consider.”

-

 

 

_So?! How was it! I want to hear EVERYTHING._   
_John? It’s nearly two am! Either you are a terrible date and already in bed, or you’re busy with other things. I hope it is the latter and not the former._   
_Or is it the former, not the latter?_   
_I’m trying to say that I hope it went famously tonight. B is wonderful. Thank you for him._   
_Okay. I’m done being that girl. Text me in the morning? Fill me in at lunch._   
_I want a sub sandwich. xox_   
_Extra oil and vinegar. No crisps._   
_Really done now. Be safe._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
>  _Good Love is on the Way_ \- John Mayer  
>  _So Impossible_ \- Dashboard Confessional  
>  _Even in the Dark_ \- Company of Thieves  
> 


	9. The Everett Fridge: A collection of mementos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's the Everett's fridge. On it, you will find tiny bits and pieces of the lives of our characters, tiny accumulations occurring after significant events take place. Keep an eye out for an updated fridge, and please, share any thoughts you may have on what else we could pin up.

 


	10. Clandestine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **clan·des·tine**  
>  klanˈdestən,ˈklandesˌtīn/  
> adjective
> 
> kept secret or done secretively, especially because illicit.  
> "she deserved better than these clandestine meetings"  
> synonyms: secret, covert, furtive, surreptitious, stealthy, cloak-and-dagger, hole-and-corner, closet, backstairs, backroom;  
> hush-hush
> 
>  **My loves!**  
>  We are long overdue for a chapter! I'm sorry for the delay! This one includes LOTS of dialogue, and a lot more John and Sherlock than the ones prior. I hope you enjoy. I have good things mapped out for you.  
> Go, read, be merry!  
> XoX, hamishh

[8]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“God, you’re brilliant,” John panted. Sherlock was straddling John’s hips, leaned forward and nuzzling his neck. John could feel Sherlock smiling against the curve of his jaw, warm heat finding his skin in gentle huffs from Sherlock’s mouth.

“I’ve only kissed you, John. Honestly. If I’m brilliant now…” John shivered at the thought of Sherlock, post-brilliant. Post-shower. Post-snog. Post-fantastic-blow-job; even if John had never given one, he could make miracles happen if he was determined. Post-earth-rocking-orgasm. _Shit._

“Quite right. Perhaps I’m…” John sucked in air as Sherlock bit playfully at his ear, “dishing out all the good compliments far too soon.”

“Good thing I’m not here for the praise,” Sherlock quipped. John laughed, then bit his lip at the accidental friction between their hips. He opened his eyes to find Sherlock smirking, smug as _hell_ , thank you very much, and observing John’s every movement.

“Yes, detective, what is it? Studying me, then?” Sherlock gave another daring grind of his hips and John tilted his head farther back into the sofa cushions with a groan. He couldn’t resist pushing up and into Sherlock’s frame, taut and strong and warm. Sherlock chuckled, then ran his palm from the hollow of John’s neck, down over the buttons of his shirt and rested on a metal belt buckle.

“Indeed. Recording your data, John. Fascinating.”

“You know who else says that, all the time?”

Sherlock raised a brow, curious. _Proceed_ , it said.

“Spock.”

Sherlock snickered warmly, and pressed a warm, soft kiss to John’s mouth. He crawled off him and strolled over to the telly. John rolled onto his side, propping his head in the palm of his hand, and grinned as Sherlock bent halfway over, looking through rows of DVDs on a shelf in the sitting room.

“Is it too soon to say you have a truly fantastic ass?”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder, a stupid grin on his face.

“Would you like to know a secret of mine, John?” John was in love with the way Sherlock said his name so often, even in casual conversation.

“Of course.” The captain noted the sultry tone of his own voice. Jane was right. Pining. Damn.

“Those words, identical phrasing, crossed my mind the night you found me at the pub.” He said it so nonchalantly, plucking a disc from the selection. John stared, mouth agape.

“You… you think I have a nice ass?”

“No, fantastic was the word, if I—”

“And you didn’t say a _word_ to me that night! You can’t think my ass looks nice and not _say_ anything!”

“I’m sorry! I was exhausted, in unfamiliar territory, and you were a bit of a distraction. Do most people tell absolute strangers they have an ass that makes them mad with want?” John could hear the crooked grin in Sherlock’s question.

John’s face instantly went smug. “Mad with want?” His voice was a teasing whisper.

“Yes, well…” Sherlock found his spot on the sofa and pushed play on the remote. “You’re very attractive, John. And fit. And you had on form-fitting denim.”

“Whatever is a man to do…” John taunted.

Sherlock swatted at him and then pointed to the telly with his remote.

“Hush and watch the movie.”

“Search for Spock, huh? Didn’t take you as an Original Series fan. I thought Next Gen for certain, maybe Deep Space Nine.”

“No. The original cast is the only cast I enjoy watching.”

“Same,” John replied, the smile evident in his voice. “My dad loved it, too.”

Sherlock turned and stole a glance at John’s face. He made note of the wetness of John’s eyes and the tension in his shoulders. He said nothing, knowing now was no time for digging up what was sure to be a cavernous amount of rough background. He could hardly stand John leaking tears of happiness. He was certainly not prepared for the opposite. Sherlock watched John carefully, documenting the twitch of his right foot, covered in a gray wool sock; the way he sprawled out on a sofa that was not his, _so he’s comfortable, then;_ the tiny furrow that had made a home between his brows at the mention of his father, and the slight haze in his eyes. _Nostalgia_. And then Sherlock watched as John began to mouth the words of the movie, obviously far past knowing it by heart. Sherlock let his eyes shift to the screen, the Enterprise coming into spacedock, and back to John, who was now shedding tears. Silently, at least, but crying nonetheless. Sherlock floundered, completely unsure of what to do.

“Isn’t the Enterprise gorgeous?” It was a loaded question. _Isn’t everything Kirk stands for worthy of praise? Can you believe Spock is gone? The opening credits kill me every time. Try to take a guess at how often my late father and I watched this film together. Do you have something like this, Sherlock? Have you lost someone like I have? Would you comfort me, please?_

“She is quite stunning, indeed, John.” Sherlock stretched his arm around John’s shoulders and leaned in to kiss him on the temple. John’s hand found Sherlock’s knee and gave it a firm squeeze. _Thank you._

“Do you own any Bond movies?”

“All of them,” Sherlock responded. Then, carefully, “Would you prefer one of those?”

“After?”

Sherlock smiled. “All right. Are you… are you actually hungry?”

John leaned into Sherlock’s chest. He placed a delicate kiss on the warmth of Sherlock’s torso, sliding his hand down to the hem of his shirt. John fiddled with it absently as he began to twist his way into Sherlock’s lap.

“Not for food, no. You?” Sherlock grinned at John’s devious expression. He let his neck fall back into the sofa as he felt John’s hand slide cautiously underneath the layer of cotton separating them. Sherlock studied John’s face as his hands traced the lines of his abdomen, his fingers light and teasing on the warm skin. The expression held there left Sherlock breathless.

“Starved.” And with that, Sherlock pulled John’s chin down to his, enveloping those clever lips with his own.

 

 

-

John set the mugs on the coffee table, sure to find coasters first. Sherlock’s flat was impeccably clean; it wasn’t that he believed Sherlock to be a mess, but he certainly pictured Sherlock to be comfortable. It was stunning – all white and glass and shelves and boxes, but it felt sterile. The sofa was comfortable, at least, and he was keeping company with one of the most intriguing men in London. That was really all he needed.

“Too modern for me.” Sherlock’s voice echoed out, pulling John from his trance.

“Hmm?” John didn’t know if he meant the movie or the living space. He was beginning to acknowledge that somehow, Sherlock had the ability to read minds.

“The flat.”

“Oh.” Yeah, definitely a mind reader. “I thought it felt a bit… unused for you. Why haven’t you broken it in?” John pulled the disc from the case and set it into the player.

“I rarely spend time here.”

John scoffed and pushed play. He headed back for the couch, grabbing a blanket on the way, and then settled in next to Sherlock.

“What do you mean? You live here, don’t you?” He grabbed a few kernels of popcorn.

“No, I found the keys in a cab on the way over to the studio.”

John raised a challenging eyebrow, but Sherlock caught the _what in the actual fuck_ that snuck into John’s eyes. Sherlock laughed, and was sure to record that face into the John Watson room of his mind palace. If he spent much more time with him, it would soon be the size of a conference hall. Sherlock smiled at the thought of a John Watson library.

“Only during my peak season.”

John sat for a moment, chewing on the snack, as he tried to push that together. Sherlock had more than one living space. He grinned at the thought that he and Sherlock both had such a huge thing in common: an off-season. They didn’t exactly match up – Sherlock seemed to be functioning full-genius right as John was finishing his season, but it meant something to John nonetheless. Sherlock could identify with a lifestyle so many others could not. Being completely submerged into a passion is one thing people do not often have in common. John’s heart did a small dance in his chest.

“So where’s your actual home then?” John inquired. Adele was singing through the opening credits. John was tempted to fast-forward. He chuckled as Sherlock grabbed the remote and did it for him. _I could most certainly get used to this._

“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” Sherlock whispered; John knew Sherlock was trying to make light of a situation that could otherwise be insulting: _That is my home, and it’s not meant for others. I’m not quite certain it’s meant to be shared with you just yet. Forgive me for that._

John nodded solemnly. “Well, I most certainly am not ready to die. I’ve only just met you. As awful as it sounds, I’d like to make it to second base, as they say, so I suppose I’m willing to wait that bit out.”

Sherlock raised an inquiring eyebrow and followed John’s hand into the bowl between them. “Is that so? And here I was, believing you to be a gentleman. Such a shame. You make an awfully large assumption that the feeling is reciprocated.”

John turned, quickly and efficiently, and delivered the most tender, delicate, _no you don’t quite understand how desperately I want you, possibly need you, shit is it already to that point?_ , kiss he could onto Sherlock’s lips. John ran his tongue across the plush bottom lip; John smirked at the salty taste of popcorn. He kissed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, his cheek, trailing a sodium ridden line of affection to his ear.

“I am hoping, quite desperately, in fact, the feeling is mutual,” he whispered into Sherlock’s ear. John burrowed his nose into Sherlock’s curls, breathing him in.

A shaky exhale left Sherlock’s throat and John grinned. He turned his attention back to the telly, leaving Sherlock to gather his thoughts and composure.

John felt Sherlock’s hand on the back of his neck, fingers shifting through the hair at the nape of his neck. He closed his eyes and sighed. Did Sherlock know this was one of John’s very favorite things, ever, of all time? _Probably._

“Daniel Craig is such a badass.”

“He reminds me a great deal of you. You have better eyes. Did you know you’re the same height?”

John stared at Sherlock, hand paused near his mouth. A few kernels fell into his lap.

“Now, Sherlock, that’s just cruel. Don’t mock me! I really do think he’s attractive!”

Sherlock chuckled. “Again, with the self-deprecation. I don’t say things I do not mean, John. I figured you would understand that much by now.”

“I remind you of Daniel Craig?”

“That is what I said, do keep up.”

“Right.”

John grinned like an idiot as he shoveled another palm full of popcorn into his mouth.

 

 

-

“Ms. Jesep, there’s someone at the door!”

“Yes, all right, Jacob, thank you. Excuse me, guys. Keep working and please, god, don’t get crafty with those blades.”

Jane walked to the door and grinned at John standing outside. She opened it wide.

“John! Hi! Please, come in!” She waved him into her classroom. Jane took off the lanyard of keys from her neck and gave him a squeeze.

“How are you?! I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Sorry, I’m a bit early, but I’ve brought sustenance.” He waved a bag of sub sandwiches awkwardly, and tossed her a cold, bottled coffee drink. Hazelnut.

“You’re perfect,” she whispered. “Here, I’ll put it in the fridge.”

Jane swiped the bag and headed back to the storage closet. John made his way around the room, glancing over shoulders at the works of art on the tables. He paused next to a girl he remembered from his last visit. She turned up to him, hazel eyes bright and happy.

“Hi, Mr. Watson.”

“Hello, Kirsten. How are you?”

“I’m doing quite well, thank you. Congratulations on your win at the International Cup! My father was so excited.”

John blushed. “Thank you. I appreciate it. What is it you lot are working on today?” He pulled out the empty chair next to her. John knew that Kirsten was Jane’s favorite student, though she swore she’d kill him if he ever uttered a word of it. John could see why. Kirsten was a great artist, but John also knew she was a girl of fantastic character. Jane had mentioned a time or two that Kirsten had gone through a bit of rough shit; in a way she reminded John a lot of B. Kirsten had every right to fall apart and blame anyone and everyone that crossed her path. But she was brilliant and kind and pure. John smiled at the blonde’s undercut and the tiny glimmer of her tongue ring as she explained the project to him.

“We’re working with weaving, but we’re doing it with paper.” John watched as she tried to steady her hands. Kirsten laughed.

“It’s difficult, cutting a straight line. Shouldn’t that be easy? Why isn’t that easy?”

Jane appeared and placed her right hand on top of Kirsten’s to keep it from shaking. Jane’s grin was huge and it warmed John’s heart.

“Because, you silly girl, you’re a perfectionist and you need a metal ruler as a guide.”

Jane snagged the ruler from the middle table and handed it to Kirsten. John watched her as she walked around the room, speaking to each student as she went, tapping a few on their shoulders and working to redirect them to the task at hand.

John knew that Jane Jesep was a woman that loved her job more than anything else in her life. The kids in this room, whether they were aware of it or not, were her number one priority, most days slotting even above her own needs. There had been several late evening conversations about a particularly infuriating situation at school, or nights Jane wouldn’t leave the building until well after seven. She never complained of it; she never seemed as though she would rather be doing something else. Jane was absolutely certain she had the best career in existence, and no one could tell her otherwise. As John watched her with her kids, he put her on the same level as Sherlock and himself – they eat, sleep, and breathe it, would inject it intravenously if it were possible, and even during the off-season, it was still all-consuming, in the most beautiful way.

“Okay, sweethearts, three minutes until the bell. Make sure you submit your work into the third period box before you leave. Don’t leave a mess on my table or you _will_ get bookwork tomorrow. That’s a promise, Alex. Yes, I mean you.”

John chuckled. Kirsten gathered up her materials, putting everything in its proper place. She slung her bag over her shoulders.

“Goodbye, Mr. Watson. It was nice to see you again.”

“You too, Kirsten. Have a nice day.”

Kirsten gave Jane a squeeze. “Bye, Ms. Jesep.”

“Bye, baby. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? Have a wonderful afternoon.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Kirsten shut the door behind her and Jane plopped down in the seat across from John. He laughed as he watched her booted feet appear in the seat next to his. She relaxed into the chair.

“Tell me everything, John Watson. I even want the dirty details, if there are any.”

He laughed and pulled off his coat. As he settled into his seat, she sprinted to the back to grab their sandwiches.

“Okay. Now go. All of it. I mean it.”

“The dancing was incredible. He’s so fucking talented, Jane. I can’t get past it. I cried for two hours straight.”

Jane gawked at him, sandwich already in her mouth. She bit and chewed frantically, trying to get to a socially acceptable level of talking with her mouth full. John laughed at her attempt to move food into her cheek so she could respond.

“John. What?! I have to see this.”

“Want to come to the next performance with me?”

She swallowed the food and smiled. “Oh my god! That would be so amazing! Yes, let’s go!” She took a sip of her drink. “This sandwich is superb, by the way. You made it just the way I like it.”

“Always the tone of surprise.”

She chuckled, eyes beaming bright and blue. “I love it when you talk Harry to me. Okay. What else? I texted at two. And got the silent treatment. _Spill._ ”

“I didn’t stay the night.”

She nodded in a contemplative way, as if she were considering whether or not his response was acceptable.

“What time did you leave?”

“Nearly four.”

Jane waggled her eyebrows at him. John rolled his eyes, then smirked.

“Second base?”

“No.”

Jane’s eyes got a bit bigger on her face. “Wait. You were there until almost four and you just snogged?”

“Each other senseless, yes.”

Her expression went cheeky and she bit into the sandwich.

“What?”

“Who would have ever thought?”

“Oh, enough with the mouth! Spit it out.”

“You’re courting Sherlock Holmes! John Watson, blonde spitfire, lady charmer, devil in the sack. And you’ve spent nearly three days with this man, and have done nothing but snog your heart out. I don’t know what to say.”

John blushed and ducked his head.

“I’m proud of you,” Jane said softly. The taunt had left her voice. John glanced up at her. Her face was gentle.

“Dunno what the hell I’m doing, Jane. Totally uncharted waters for me.”

“You’re doing famously.”

“Sherlock seems to think so.”

Jane choked on the onion hanging out of her mouth. Then she howled, bent over and clutching her stomach, mirth glistening in the corners of her eyes.

“Now _that_ is exactly what I want to hear. Is he a good kisser?”

“There is nothing he isn’t good at, Jane. The man’s fucking lethal. Damn. He _looks_ at me a certain way and my blood boils.”

“When are you seeing him again?”

“I’m not sure. He told me he’d talk to me soon when I left this morning. I guess we’ll see.”

“Well I want to know when you do. And tell me when the tickets for his next performance go up. I don’t want to miss that for anything.”

“’Course. How’s B?”

Jane smirked.

“Yes, well B is quite nice.”

“Quite nice is nothing. I know that much.” John took the first crunch of his sandwich. An oregano covered cucumber slipped from between the bread and plopped onto the wax paper. He raised his eyebrows at Jane expectantly.

“He’s quiet.”

“Yes. And so are you, which is a true rarity. What gives?”

“I really like him, John. I really like him a lot. He’s so kind. And such a gentlemen.”

“Yes, that’s my B. Did you guys see a film last night?”

“We did. The new Thor.”

“And?”

“He covered dinner. And opened the car door for me. And paid for my ticket. And bought me a large popcorn though I only wanted a medium. He also got me toffee apple stickers, which are my favorite. I don’t know if I’d mentioned that to him or not. And he’s so funny, John. Clever. Ian took movies so seriously; I could never ask him anything in the midst of one or he would get frustrated and mouthy.”

John nodded and gave Jane a small smile. “Are you comparing B to Ian in more ways than their movie manners?”

Jane’s face fell and her cheeks grew red. “I didn’t mean… I wasn’t trying to say…”

“I know, love. I’m just reminding you. New experience warrants a new set of expectations. Or rather, maybe no expectations?”

“I’m afraid, John. It’s been nearly four months. Is that enough time?”

“Only you can decide that, Jane. You told me you were dubbed the serial monogamist. B is a good man, but he’s also a smart man. Maybe you should chat with him about it?”

There was a knock at the door. Jane turned her head, sighing, but the sound halted immediately when she saw Kirsten crying through the window. “John, I’m sorry… do you mind if I…?”

“No, please, go. I’m almost done. If I need to leave, let me know.”

There were hushed whispers and John tried his very best to ignore the conversation. Kirsten was wrapped up in Jane’s arms, clutching her for dear life, and her entire body was shaking. Jane was running her hands through her hair, chin resting on Kirsten’s head, and shushing her. A knot formed in John’s chest and he had a collision of thoughts: Jane was going to make a great mom, as he watched her speak softly and wipe the wet from under Kirsten’s eyes with the pads of her thumbs, and she was a strong woman, to endure watching the ones she loved so much hurt as Kirsten was right now. John caught Jane kissing Kirsten’s forehead before the girl left the room. Jane turned her to face John, tears now welling in her own eyes.

“Shit, John. Shit.”

John was out of his chair and crossing the tiled floor. He wrapped his arms instinctively around her as she shook, sobbing into his chest. He only held her, not saying a word, and waited for her to find herself again. She pressed her forehead into John’s sternum and sighed deeply. Her fingers clutched the wool of his jumper.

“She doesn’t deserve this, John. She should be fucking happy. She’s fucking seventeen years old. Seventeen.” She huffed a broken exhale into the space between them.

“I know, Jane. I know.” He didn’t know what exactly, but it didn’t matter. Horrible things happen to great people, and his life was a fucking shining example.

 

 

-

John was twisting the deadbolt of his door when he caught sight of the white tip of an envelope in his letterbox. He plucked it up and turned it over in his hands.

 

[jw]

 

He slid his thumb underneath the seal of the white paper and pulled out a single sheet of stationery. The scrawl was nearly illegible, gorgeous, and totally unfamiliar.

 

 

_[John,_

_If you care to join me, I have plans for tomorrow evening. While it may seem odd, I have a request regarding your attire. Please wear the following: jeans, sneakers, a t-shirt, and button up of some kind. I hope you enjoy dancing as much as you enjoy watching._

_SH]_

 

 

John’s stomach dipped as a smile stole his mouth. He put the letter and envelope between his teeth as he fished out his mobile and pushed open the front door.

 

 **Leaving me love letters now?  
** _I have to string you along somehow. SH  
_ **Your request was a bit vague. Care to specify?**  
Your attempt at summoning clues from me will not work. Detective, John. SH  
However, I feel as though I would react very strongly to you in black, fitted denim. SH  
 **Right. Okay. Black, fitted denim it is. Any other preferences?  
** _Wear your hair messy. And don’t cover your tattoos. SH_  
 **Bossy.**  
Done. What time should I meet you?  
 _I’ll pick you up. 22:00. SH  
_ **A proper date.  
** _You could say that. Eat before. SH  
_ **Some date.  
** _You will most certainly be saying such at the end of the night. Morning. Whichever. SH  
_ **Are you making suggestive comments via text?**  
 _Don’t be ridiculous. SH_  
Of course I am. SH

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
>  _Sleep Baby Sleep_ \- The Broods  
>  _Stellar_ \- Incubus  
>  _Save Your Scissors_ \- City and Colour
> 
> *For all my none-trekkies out there, I suggest first and foremost that you give it a watch. The original series is my heart and soul. Search for Spock is the third movie in the Original Series films, and is by far my favorite (I adore Spock and everything he is). Next Generation and Deep Space Nine are later generation Star Trek shows. All of them are available on Netflix AS WE SPEAK. So hurry, while we're waiting for season four! Commander Spock is half-vulcan, half-human (Vulcan is an alien race that is founded on the ideals of logic and analysis rather than emotion... sound familiar?) and Captain James T. Kirk is the Captain of the Starship Enterprise. He also happens to be THE most badass man in all of existence. Except John Watson.
> 
> *The Bond movie referenced is Skyfall, in which Adele sings "Skyfall" in the opening credits. Yet another must see if you have not.
> 
>   
> John's sleeves, a WIP.


	11. Reverberate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **re·ver·ber·ate**  
>  rəˈvərbəˌrāt/  
> (of a loud noise) be repeated several times as an echo.  
> synonyms: resound, echo, re-echo, resonate, ring, boom, rumble, vibrate
> 
>  **Hello, my treasures**  
>  And welcome to chapter 9! Today is my birthday, and since I have been spending so much time on this chapter, I finally feel like it's worthy of your eyes! I know not all of my readers/A03 readers celebrate Thanksgiving, but here in the States, it's Thursday for us! Do you know how grateful I am for you? I can't imagine you possibly do, but god, you are. I started reading fanfiction in June and writing in July. I'm hardly decent, but I can see growth from my first works until now, and I have you all to thank. I would have written it anyway; my love of John and Sherlock is something I turn to daily, and something I know all of you share with me, but your kindness, love, and incredible ideas have helped me evolve, not only as a story-teller, but also as a human.
> 
> So please know, this "writer" would be absolutely nothing without her fantastic readers. I am so fucking thankful for you.  
> Enjoy. Other goodies below.  
> XoX

**[9]**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock knocked on John’s door, three raps evenly spaced. He took a step back and typed out a message on his mobile. He heard the heavy shifting of the door opening, and glanced up. He felt his chest collapse at the sight of John, awkwardly hovering inside the door.

“Hi. Coming in, or should I grab my coat?”

Sherlock stared, dumbfounded, and then made his way to the top step. He didn’t step inside the door; any closer proximity and he’d devour John alive. The rugby captain was dressed in his university best: Sherlock’s mouth parched at the sight of black denim clinging to John’s gorgeous thighs and skimming down to fit snugly about his ankles. His feet were covered in a pair of worn, ratty, and faded pair of orange Chuck Taylors. John wore a faded, gray, years-old Incubus t-shirt, highlighting the taut muscle of his chest and biceps, and over the t-shirt was a long sleeved, pine green and black flannel, sleeves gloriously cuffed to reveal the blue and red of his Union Jack. His hair was mussed, sticking this way and that in perfect dishevelment. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to thread his hands through those blonde strands and give a firm tug. John’s blue eyes were just as analytical, and Sherlock bit his tongue to keep from grinning as he watched John’s own eyes dilate.

“Retract that. Not a question. You are coming inside.”

“We have a schedule, John, and I can’t keep others-“

John stepped out and yanked Sherlock into the flat by the front of his oversized, cream jumper. “I don’t give a shit about others. I’m kissing you. Right. Now.” John growled. The door slammed and John pinned him against it, pressing his chest flush with Sherlock’s. He mouthed at Sherlock’s neck, breath gusting across his flesh in a short, shallow pattern. “Fucking Christ, Sherlock. You should have warned me that you wouldn’t be in typical attire. This is…” John ran his hand down the front of Sherlock’s jumper to the thighs of his burgundy jeans, where John proceeded to drag his fingernails into the denim. Sherlock kissed John hard on the mouth, and then bit his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth. John gasped, the tiniest hint of frustration evident in his voice. “Is there anything you aren’t stunning in? Am I really meant to not take you right here? Must I wait?”

Sherlock chuckled and reached for the doorknob. “John, uni suits you so well. Did you say these things to everyone you brought into your bed?”

John’s brow furrowed, his neck reddening considerably.

“Don’t fret, John. It works. And you look… Incredible.” Sherlock opened the door and clutched John’s wrist, pulling him out of the flat and snatching his coat en route. John locked up and turned to face the street, wordless.

“I know you meant it, John. I don’t think you’re trying to get me to bed.”

John looked up, eyes less anxious.

“Besides, it would take nothing more than your voice to get me there. All you’d have to do is ask.” Sherlock turned right to head toward the main street, John’s mouth agape, staring after him.  

 

 

-

Sherlock was trying to talk himself out of the absurd physical impulses he was experiencing. One was particularly bothersome, as it wouldn’t go away: he desperately wanted to crawl into John’s lap, right there in the back of the cab, and grind against those perfect hips. Sherlock moved his eyes up to John’s face; he was staring out the window, licking his lips.

“There are a few things I need from you tonight.”

John’s eyebrows skyrocketed on his face, mouth open in a sweet oh. A devilish grin quickly replaced it.

“Anything you want.” John whispered, voice rough. Sherlock shivered.

“Yes, I’ll bring that up later. But for now, I need you to understand a few things before we go into this.”

John’s face creased in confusion. His eyes shifted back and forth, trying to sort out Sherlock’s words. Sherlock smiled as he saw the light appear in John’s eyes. “Are we… are you on a case?”

“Yes, one of sorts. Firstly, don’t call me by my name. Tonight, I’m Shezza.”

A loud, burst of sound left John’s mouth. It startled Sherlock, who found John with a hand clapped over his mouth, obviously trying to stifle another strong urge to laugh.

“Secondly,” Sherlock bit out, “don’t mention what I do, where I work, or how we met.”

John straightened a bit at that, a new emotion owning his features. Protective. Sherlock felt his heart spin loose in his chest. _Dear god, is there anything even remotely unpleasant about him?_

“All right. Is there anyone in particular I should be looking out for? Physical attributes, certain locations, specific habits?”

Sherlock stared at John, words vanishing from his mouth. John hardly seemed put out at the fact that his first official outing with Sherlock was a case, not an actual date. Tonight wasn’t _really_ a case, but John wasn’t aware of that. And Sherlock did want his identity, for the most part, to remain secret where they were going. He watched John as he tensed, turning over into a defense mode he had not yet encountered. It was both terrifying and undeniably attractive.

“No, no one in particular. We’re just going to scope the location, get a feel of things. Gather some evidence.”

“Do I need a new identity?”

“No, you’re fine. John Watson is perfectly fine.”

“And are we together?”

“I thought that much was obvious.”

John grinned ear to ear, turning to show the window the blush of his cheeks. “Good.”

 

 

-

The cabbie stopped off near some docks along the Thames. John turned, expression curious, as Sherlock tossed the cabbie his notes and crawled out of the car. John followed, only after appreciating the generous view of Sherlock’s arse as he got out.

Sherlock headed south, toward the dock and toward a large, seemingly abandoned warehouse. John thought he heard music faintly in the distance; odd place for music. As they ventured closer to the warehouse, the music grew louder. John grinned. Jasper had told him a million times over how fun this place is, but John had never made the time to feel it out. He turned to Sherlock.

“The Underground, huh?”

Sherlock nodded, eyes bright. John grinned, now being able to identify the given expression Sherlock gave him as pride.

“All right, Shezza. Sounds like a hell of a date.”

They reached the doors and two larger men stood by the opened garage bays.

“Oy, Shezza. Good to see you back.”

“Thanks, gents. Everyone I’m looking for inside?”

“Yessir. Who’s this?” The question wasn’t ugly or assaulting; they were genuinely interested. John extended one hand, and as the larger of the two men grabbed it, the other grinned ear to ear.

“’’oly shit, Troy! That’s John Watson!”

“Don’t be an idiot, Duke. They probably just look alike.”

John chuckled. “No, er, actually, Duke’s right. I’m John. John Watson. Pleased to meet you.”

“Oh! My apologies, sir! If I may say so, that last scrum that won you the International Cup was beautiful. Your fullback is phenomenal.”

“I agree, Troy. Wholeheartedly.” Sherlock watched as John shook both their hands. _Okay, can we go on now? Sorry for blowing it already._

Sherlock began winding through the warehouse, John following closely behind. The music was nearly deafening, filling up every cell in John’s body. The space was large, two of the four walls lined with garage bays, and large, colored lights hung from the industrial steel of the roof. It was crowded, but not like many clubs, where there’s no room to breathe or move and the whole place smelled of sweaty sex and booze. John grinned. This place felt clean. Easy. Fun.

The DJ booth was massive, long and placed straddling a corner of two metal walls. A dark-skinned man with dreads was spinning behind it, one ear free of the huge headphones. His ears were gauged, a tattoo of a Vulcan greeting barely visible against the dark skin of his neck. Yes, this place was going to be just fine. The DJ spun, and the song changed. To his left, John saw three women walk into the center of a ring of people. They all looked to be early to mid-twenties, and they stood in a straight line. One of them, with long blonde curls and a young face, gave a flirtatious wiggle of her fingers to someone in their direction. John glanced around, eager to see the receiver, and chuckled to see Sherlock returning the gesture. Sherlock gave her a two fingered salute.  A brunette next to her, knitted hat pulled over her brown, frizzing waves, shot Sherlock a bird, and smiled, her tongue caught between her teeth. Their center member, dreaded and natural faced, silver hoop in her nose gleaming with each rotation of the lights, took a step forward.

The girls then fell into a v shaped alignment, and Sherlock tugged John forward, breaking through the crowd until they were making a place for themselves in the ring that surrounded the dancers. John crossed his arms and watched, as each girl stepped forward, right knees bent at a ninety degree angle, in perfect unison with the first drop of an electric beat. Their hips slung side to side with intention, locking solid with each repetition of the cymbal in the song. The forward-most girl dropped suddenly into low side-lunge, left knee bent impossibly, right leg out and straight. The girls were then horizontal with the floor, legs, knees, and hips rolling against the concrete, but never touching. The blonde grinned as she moved, face laid open. It was obvious she enjoyed what she did, and her partners danced with the same ferocity. Their hair whipped like an extension of their bodies, sharp sprays of brown, blonde and red. John turned to Sherlock, watching as Sherlock looked on with his head tilted, hand resting under his chin, his elbow finding leverage against his chest. He was smirking, one eyebrow raised. He knew them.

Suddenly, the dancers split from their formation, each of them moving out closer to the edge of their circle, creating a triangle between the three of them. The blonde gave a curtsy to Sherlock, turned and winked to John, and crossed her legs suddenly, somehow finding air in the process. Her feet lifted from the ground and returned with a stomp. Her stomach was on full view, a cropped, white tee shirt covering the necessities, and her pants resembled sweats. One diagonal zipper rested on each thigh, and they clung to her ankles and tucked into a pair of black, high top Converse. She was absent of jewelry, a thin streak of black eyeliner her only makeup. The girls fluxed back and forth between the ring and the V arrangement, before finally stopping at the last line, chests heaving, and a smile specific to each girl plastered on their faces. The audience hollered loudly, clapped, and John joined them.

The trio walked up to them, wiping their foreheads with the back of their hands or their shirts, whichever was more convenient. Sherlock gave a slow, late clap, chin nodding up and down.

“Oy, Shezza. What’d you think, then?” The words came from the blonde’s mouth, and her _think_ sounded as if it were spoken with an “F” instead. John bit back a smile at hearing Sherlock’s other name from someone else’s mouth. It sounded light less absurd coming from this girl, rolled off her tongue a bit better than John’s.

“Not bad, Chachi. Been taking my advice, I see." _Chachi_. John grinned. Suiting.

“Yeah well, something had to change.” _Sumfin._

“Chachi, this is John.”

“Yeah, I recognized him. How’d you drag this guy here, Shezza? Tie him up in the boot?” She stuck her hand out after wiping the sweat of her palms on her pants. “Pleased to meet the best looking hooker I’ve ever seen.” John chuckled, Sherlock blushed, and Chachi gave a stern and strong handshake.

“Despite popular relief, being tied up isn’t always my thing.” John responded. Sherlock’s dusting of pink turned rose. “Pleased to meet you, Chachi. That was… brilliant.” She grinned ear to ear at John’s suggestive mouth.

“Yeah, Shezza’s taught us right, I s’pose. I thought we kept him around for _something._ What do you think so far? First time in the Underground?”

John nodded. “It’s fantastic, really. Wishing now I’d come out ages ago.” He could feel Sherlock’s smirk next to him and John laughed at the fantastic double meaning. Chachi raised a questioning eyebrow and John waved a hand through the air, dismissing it.

Sherlock cleared his throat and stepped forward. “John, you’ve met Chachi. This is Sky,” he gestured to the frizzy haired brunette, eyes dark with makeup, a bar through her right eyebrow. She grinned, and shook John’s hand. “And this is Ginger.” Ginger was the tallest of the three, nearly two inches taller than John, and her dreads were pulled back in a bundle at the nape of her neck. They were cherry red at the tips, beads laced through some of them. Her eyes were bright and blue, her freckles even more apparent up close. John had a hard time reading her; her smile was small and tentative, but far from shy. If anything, she seemed distant and hard.

“Pleasure. I loved the choreography. And that song. What was it?”

“Stay High. A Tove Lo remix of Dex’s,” Sky offered. _Ah._ Molly and Jane liked that artist. John thought she sounded familiar.

“Great beat. Dex the DJ?”

Ginger nodded.

“He’s damn good.”

Chachi laughed. “Hell yeah, he is! Best London has to offer. We’re so lucky we have him.”

“Shezza!” John looked up at the sound of a male voice, bristling a bit despite himself. A tall, dirty-blonde broke through the crowd near them and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. It seemed genial. _That’s all it is, John. Calm down._ The man leaned close to Sherlock’s ear and began to whisper something into it, making Sherlock grin and duck his chin closer to his chest. John clenched and unclenched his left fist, prepared for the left hook, should the opportunity arise. They were on a case, after all, John justified. _It could be anyone. Anything could happen._

“Deep breath there, Cap. That’s nothing.” Sky told him, low and close. John raised his eyebrows, surprised someone else noticed him watching Sherlock. “We all love Shezza here, but it’s never been anything, y’know, more than that.” When John still didn’t seem convinced, she took it a step further: “Honestly, John, he’s never brought another living soul here. Never seen him look at someone the way he looks at you. Wipe that sour look from your face.” His lips parted, no words coming his way. So he just nodded and did exactly as he was told.

He glanced back to Sherlock to find the dirty-blonde now looking at him, Sherlock doing the talking. Graham nodded, a handsome half-smile stealing the lower part of his face. He was attractive. Quite attractive. Tall, lean, all charm. He had blue eyes, wasn’t far from Sherlock’s height, and was dressed in a white button up and fitted trousers. He stuck out sore here amongst the urban dress, and John immediately went to _posh._ The man stepped forward, extended the hand free of a gin and tonic, and his small smile broke into a grin. It immediately set John at ease, reminded him of Egan, and he grabbed the hand in a solid shake.

“John Watson, it’s an absolute honor. You are the best hooker St Helens has had in half a century. At least, my father believes so. I’d agree, but I haven’t been alive _quite_ long enough to back the validity of that statement. I’m Graham, by the way. Graham Norton.”

“Pleased to meet you, Graham. And cheers! Tell your father I said thank you. That’s one hell of a compliment.”

“I certainly will. Here! Shezza, take a photo. He’ll never believe me otherwise.” Graham tossed his mobile to Sherlock, and John felt the heat rise rapidly to his neck. It was one thing, to interact with fans after the matches, or occasionally on the nights the team would go out to celebrate, but he had not expected to meet many here. Certainly not posh, seemingly wealthy ones. Usually it was young women or men, or blokes like Graham’s dad. Or Troy, the bouncer. Graham parked it next to John, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, other hand crossing his chest and pointing at John. His expression said _yes, this happened._ John rolled with the punches, gave a thumbs up and his best headliner smile. He was rewarded with a gorgeous grin from Sherlock, who thumbed through the photos, and then handed the device back to Graham. Sherlock came back to his side, his arm brushing against John’s before he discreetly laced his last two fingers through John’s. He stole a look at his… god, what was he? Boyfriend? Love interest? Dream come true? Ultimate demise? _Mine_. That was enough, wasn’t it? _Whatever he is, he’s mine, and Sherlock apparently seems to agree._ John gave Sherlock’s fingers a gentle squeeze. Sherlock nodded delicately to him, lifted John’s hand to his mouth and kissed the back of his palm.

 

 

-

John stood amongst a small crowd of people, chatting easily. Graham was a nice guy, and John found it amusing that Sherlock was not the only posh man to have such daring recreational activities. He took a sip of his stout and glanced around, soaking up the movement in the warehouse. There were about just as many women as men, and John had seen a few of them dance. They were good. Very good. The song changed and John felt someone at his right flank, chest pressing into his shoulder, a hand skimming the bicep of his left arm. He was gently being turned and John grinned up at Sherlock.

He was fucking gorgeous. The man could wear anything: a postman uniform, a moth-eaten cardigan, a paper sack, and he would leave John breathless. As it were, the cable knit jumper, sinfully fitted burgundy jeans and black Supras were doing just as fine a job. Sherlock smiled, pulled his beanie farther down onto his head, and leaned forward to John’s ear.

“There’s something I want to show you.”

John nodded; his eyes went wide as Sherlock began to tug at the sleeves of his jumper and pulled the thing up and over his head. A pale turquoise, sleeveless shirt lay underneath, sweat causing it to cling to Sherlock’s lower back and abdomen. The muscles of Sherlock’s upper arms made John’s mouth go dry as cotton. John blinked a few times, trying to find tracks for his thought process.

“Hold this?” Sherlock whispered. John reached out and took the bundle of wool fabric. Sherlock began to walk away and John raised his eyebrow, befuddled. And then Sherlock turned round to face him. He was certainly facing only John, as his eyes were boring into his: pale, devious, flirtatious. John licked his lips.

Sherlock took a magnetic step forward. It was hardly a step, more like a glide, and John watched in awe as Sherlock’s body began to move in subtle, tight shifts and clicks: first his right arm, out and up to his shoulder, his left hand to his chin. Then his Supras were turned in John’s direction and Sherlock’s legs were moving, feet lifting and hitting the ground again, small vibrations moving in gorgeous tremors all the way up to Sherlock’s eyes. They did not leave John’s face. They were darker now, more black than grey, and John’s attention was ripped to Sherlock’s hips, rolling sensually against the air, as if emulating a body that wasn’t visible for him to grind against. Sherlock extended his left hand out straight, and with a few tiny movements, he was giving John an undeniable “come hither” with his index finger. The onlookers yelled, clapping John on the back and hollering words of encouragement. Chachi smacked John hard on the arse. The foxiest smile to date played at the corner of Sherlock’s lips. _You know you want to._

John smirked and then chuckled as Graham gave him a gentle shove towards Sherlock. John would not dance, not yet, but he sure as hell wouldn’t deny placing himself in Sherlock’s personal space. Not like this. Sherlock was on, and John loved every fucking second of it.

Sherlock was breathing his air, mouth centimeters from John. His hand ticked upward to drag lithe fingers across John’s chest, nails finding his skin at the shoulder, peeling away one side of his undone flannel. He worked his way behind John, leaning his back against John’s solid one, and dipped low. John’s breath went ragged at the feeling of Sherlock’s hands on the backs of his thighs, creeping steadily upward.

The heat disappeared and Sherlock ghosted a kiss across John’s neck. The audience cat-called. John felt the blush rising to his cheeks. _How did he move like this?_ It was one thing on the stage: he was unattainable, placed above all those that watched him, and it was understood that he was more divine there than most humans could dream of being. But as John watched on, the coy expression on Sherlock’s face causing a rush of blood to the most obvious of places, John was even more impressed. Here, Sherlock was so much like everyone else. Looks aside, of course, he dressed the part, talked the part, and sure as fuck danced the part. In fact, John was convinced even Sherlock’s acting couldn’t sell something like this if it weren’t at least partially true. John grinned at the realization that the case they were on tonight was Sherlock’s own. He had decided to let John in on a delicious secret: this wasn’t a lie. Or a case. Or a game. It was Sherlock, and he was so perfectly human.

The song was transitioning into the next, and on the last beat of the bass, Sherlock halted in front of John, nose to nose, hot breath gusting from his mouth. John fisted Sherlock’s hair and brought him down, hard and fast on his mouth. The kiss was a contradiction: filth laced with complete and total admiration. Sherlock clutched the fabric of John’s flannel, pulling him close by the collar.

The bass line of the next song bled through the warehouse and John’s knees nearly fell out. Sherlock pulled away, one eyebrow higher on his face than the other, grey eyes aflame. _Round two?_ John felt faint at the song alone; a mid-nineties alternative remix, foul and filthy and so damn hot. Though John made little effort to inform others of it, the beat had gotten him off several times over. It was wildly intertwined with John’s libido, and tonight was no exception. He nodded, unsure of what words would leave his mouth should he choose to align some together, and instead laced his knee through Sherlock’s legs. He felt Sherlock cant his hips downward, finding friction with John’s denim, and John’s pulse shot to an indeterminable speed as Sherlock’s head dropped back, exposing a perfect expanse of pale skin. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s neck, their foreheads now touching, and John could hardly remember what breathing was.

He’d had no doubt in his mind that Sherlock might be a force to be reckoned with. He’d entertained thoughts of sex with him; most of them seemed unrealistic. Sherlock as the aggressor, strong and hard and a fucking oncoming storm. But as the dancing progressed, as John became more and more turned on by being used as a source of friction, a location of pleasure, those ideas became more tangible. Sherlock was a perfect duality: all honesty, generosity, and devotion and then, on the other side, ferocity, confidence, and adventure. The man was equilibrium. While John bit his lip, fingers digging into the flesh and denim of Sherlock’s thighs, he wondered where he would fit in the balance. He closed his eyes, redirecting the lack of sense to enhance all his others, and the smallest moan left his mouth as Sherlock clawed down his chest. Sherlock pushed John away and pulled him back, John’s back to Sherlock’s chest, and all coherencies evaporated at the fantastic hardness now grinding against John’s arse and thigh. Sherlock placed his left arm over John’s shoulder, John’s hand finding his and intertwining the fingers, gripping until the flesh turned mottled and pale, and Sherlock’s right hand dug sharply into John’s right hip. The gesture was claiming, possessive, undeniably territorial. _Do I really get to have both sides of this? One or the other most certainly would have sufficed, but both?_ Sherlock’s mouth was at John’s neck, lips moving against the shell of his ear. John’s own erection twitched in his tight jeans as Sherlock’s voice, pure sex, certainly, sang low in his ear.

“Help me. You make me perfect. Help me think I’m somebody else.”  

John gasped, desperately trying to suck in air. Sherlock released John’s hand and lifted both of John’s arms up and back, wrapping them around Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock clutched at John’s forearms, his wrists, fingers moving against John’s sweating palms. Sherlock’s bowed lips, full and wet and hot, were kissing at the bones of his hand, his knuckles, tongue teasing between each pair of fingers. As the song’s intensity barely started to wane, Sherlock traced his hands down John’s arms, slowly, down his chest, teasing the waistband of his jeans, dipping, with terrifying intention, into the curve of each of John’s hipbones. John pressed the base of his skull deeper into Sherlock’s chest, trying to regain his composure, his breathing, anything to break the focus of Sherlock’s hands and their current location.

John’s mind flickered to a thought made of pure filth. _He could get me off without ever having touched me._

 

 

-

_We’ve just landed! We missed you! Come round tomorrow for a chat and tea? I have a feeling there’s quite a bit that’s happened in two weeks… At least according to Jane. Should we invite Sherlock as well?_

 

-

Sherlock watched as John stood at the bar, foot tapping in rhythm with the music, as he waited for his whiskey shot.

This night had unfolded famously. As Sherlock mulled over the events of the evening, he felt the now ever-present-John-Watson blush rise to his neck and cheeks. The man was fascinating. Sherlock knew that John was a man who enjoyed going out with his blokes, having a good time and occasionally making an outright fool of himself. He puzzled momentarily, both wary of and intrigued by John’s reserve. Sherlock felt a small knot in his stomach twist a bit tighter. He realized that perhaps John felt the need to show restraint in preservation of Sherlock’s reputation. While they had certainly done thorough studies of each others anatomy that night, those types of songs often elicited a strong physical response from most people, couples in particular. Oh. _OH_.

 _Are we a couple then?_ Sherlock felt a small smile grab the right corner of his mouth and tug. John turned round from the bar, two shots in hand, and smirked at Sherlock. He raised a questioning eyebrow. _Am I allowed?_ Sherlock laughed, sound drowning into a dubstep beat, and nodded encouragingly. John was beaming as he lifted the first paper cup to his mouth, tossing it back in one swift motion. Sherlock felt unnecessary saliva gather in his throat at John’s neck elongated, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. The second one went down just as quickly, and John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He walked straight to Sherlock and carded his hands through Sherlock’s damp, chocolate strands. He pulled him down into a fierce kiss, laced with whiskey and want. Sherlock ran his thumb across John’s brow lovingly, and smiled down at him. Sherlock, out of habit, analyzed the rapid increase of his heartbeat, sweat on his palms and the movement of blood in his body.

“This is fantastic.” John offered.

“Indeed. I’m enjoying myself.”

“I’m enjoying you.” John hummed. Sherlock felt his face grow hot. John chuckled. “I love watching you blush. You always seem so surprised by it.”

“Yes, well, I feel as though you’ve begun to make an experiment of it.” Sherlock jested, voice full of fondness. John could do anything he wanted, Sherlock was sure, and he would be perfectly content with it.

“Perhaps I’ll modify my experiments to encompass more variables once we get home…” John whispered. His expression was heated, and Sherlock had grown very partial to that look on John Watson’s face. His lips were red, cherry nearly, and parted, now shifting between shining with saliva or being chapped. Sherlock was tempted to offer his own tongue across John’s thin, flushed lips. The smirk was devious, but nothing Sherlock couldn’t handle. The eyes, however, were an entirely different story. They were charged, full of so many things, even Sherlock was faced with a challenge of sorting them out. Want had been the most prominent of the evening, hot and heavy and absolutely fearless in the navy blue and black, fondness a close second. Admiration and pride were present also, and these two hit Sherlock harder than he would have originally believed they would. The furrowing of his eyebrows lent itself to impatience rather than worry. _I want you, right now._ Sherlock had never read such urgency in someone’s face. It was enough to yank the oxygen from his lungs.

“And am I your test subject?” Sherlock was pleased with himself, at his ability to remain quick and cheeky despite his own hunger for John crawling quickly to an unbearable state.

“Only at your assent.”

Sherlock’s body was practically humming with sexual tension. He was a man of class, intelligence, and painfully articulate manners. But tonight was not about that man. He was halfway tempted to pin John to the wall and initiate it, all of it, anything, right then. _Exhibitionism, new variable number one._

“Shezza, how’s it?!” Sherlock dropped his eye contact with John and turned, sighing, toward the voice. Ah. Tito and Izzi.

“Tito, Izzi, hello. There’s someone I want you to meet.” Sherlock gestured towards John, who stepped forward, hand extended. Sherlock’s knees felt unsteady. John was incredible. He had met numerous new people this evening and hadn’t batted an eye. They were so different in many ways.

“Hello, I’m John. Nice to meet you.” John’s expression was friendly, kind. Unlike his first glance at Graham. Sherlock chuckled at the recollection.

“Yeah, the girls were telling us ‘bout you. Said you’re a menace, fantastic, and apparently very hot on Shezza.”

It was John’s turn to blush, and Sherlock documented the pink as it kissed his neck and the outer edges of his cheeks.

“Indeed, I am. Hot on Shezza, I mean. The rest is up for debate, absolutely.” Sherlock felt dizzy, then childish for the light-headedness. He felt John’s hand on the small of his back, a warm radiation of comfort.

“I’m Tito,” the olive-skinned man offered, grinning, short dreads pulled up into a knot on the top of his head, the sides undercut like Kirsten’s back at the high school, punked out and precious with her glimmering tongue ring, “and this is Izzi.” Izzi was of Asian descent, dark haired and warm skinned. He was tall and thin, and wore black, thick-framed glasses.

“They’ve got freestyle going. Care to watch?” Sherlock looked to John, who nodded.

The boys pushed their way close to the edge of the quickly expanding ring. Someone was in now, moving quickly to the pulsing bass lines and techno lined choruses. Sherlock wrapped his arm loosely about John’s waist, and turned his attention to the people taking turns. He observed the choreography, collecting data on what was trending, what looked best when properly executed, and how often people actually kept time with their music. Not many, he found. _How disappointing._ He grinned as Tito was gently pushed into the circle. Sherlock analyzed Tito’s form. He had cleaned it up a bit since the last Underground. The man could move, and well, but he had a difficult time making his movements seem intentional. While everything during these events was spontaneous to some degree, it was always important to make things feel second-nature, deliberate, confident—

John had suddenly gone from being by his side to standing, frozen, in the middle of the ring of people. There were easily a hundred watching in, waiting for him to move. Everyone stared, voices gone, whispers subsiding, phones out recording, and John stood, looking like a deer pinned by the headlights of a Volvo SUV – certain of imminent doom. Sherlock panicked. _Shit. Why was I not paying attention? I’m such an idiot. IDIOT._ He took a step forward, locking onto John’s eyes. _Deep breaths_ , he said through his huge eyes, _I’m coming to get you._ As soon as Sherlock’s outstretched arm broke the circle, John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock halted, confused. He tilted his chin to the side. And then John smirked.

“Show them, Watson!” a male voice hollered above the awkward silence.

What followed left Sherlock in a state of absolute disarray. Had his lungs collapsed? A regular movement had suddenly become a sensual one as John shrugged out of his flannel, shoulders moving in perfect synchronization, and as it slid off his arms, John caught it deftly in his right hand, slinging it over his shoulder like a coat jacket. He turned to one side, feet moving in quick steps across the concrete, locking his knees, ankles, hips. He found Sherlock’s eyes, and winked menacingly before gliding across to Chachi, dropping the shirt in her hands. She raised her eyebrows, obviously impressed and whistled loudly. Sherlock bit his lip as John found new ways to excite him – the tiniest flicker of the flesh of his abdomen as his joints locked solidly into position and out again, the absolute teasing expression on his face as he danced, the confidence radiating off him in waves. His form was untouchable, bias or none, and the ring of people spread out, gave him more room, whistled, hollered, yelled, clapped, mobile after mobile reaching up above the person in front of them, recording him. He slowly began working his way closer to Sherlock. The want running through Sherlock’s veins was scalding him alive; John Watson as a rugby captain was enticing alone. John Watson as a man was a beautiful, perfect enigma to be solved in the most delicate and thorough of ways. John Watson as a sexual being was, thus far, mind-blowing, tantalizing, and stark. John Watson as a dancer was a gift Sherlock had not believed he would ever witness, sharp and perfect and surreal. _Where the hell did this come from?_

And just as he thought John was winding down, passing off to someone else, he dropped to the floor, resting back onto his hands. In a flurry of movement, John entire weight was settled on his forearms and wrists. Sherlock laughed, slack-jawed, as John began to break dance. _He’s a damned bboy._ Sherlock slipped two fingers between his teeth, whistling loudly with Chachi, admiring the curve of John’s neck against the floor, the easy strength resting in his biceps and deltoid, hoisting his body effortlessly in the air. It wasn’t that Sherlock had believed John to be clumsy or uncoordinated. He knew that wasn’t true. Graceful, however, was not something Sherlock would have previously believed John to be. As Sherlock roved over the flexing of the moon phases banding his upper arm and the movement of the tendons underneath his Union Jack, far more explicit images flooded Sherlock’s mind. Could John lift him by the thighs, pin him to the wall, and fuck him senseless? Would John bark orders when he was on in the bedroom? Would he wash Sherlock’s hair in the shower? Did he trounce around his flat, starkers and gorgeous?

John was back to his feet, about half a meter from Sherlock, when he knelt to one knee and extended his hand to Sky. She grabbed it, kissed it, and stepped into the circle, combat boots already moving in a swift rhythm. John stalked up to Sherlock, breathless, pink and winded, and grinned.

 

 

-

_John Watson. What in the actual FUCK?! YOU NEVER TOLD ME YOU WERE A GODDAMNED BEATBOY._   
_Your foxy ass is all over my Twitter feed! Where the hell are you?_   
_Nevermind. Did a little tag creeping. Underground, huh?_   
_Sherlock’s going to be quite jealous. Where is he tonight? He should have said no to rehearsal and hell yes to the Watson._

_No, seriously. I can’t get over this. I’ve watched at least twenty-two videos now. How long have you been doing this?!  
I want to come next time!!!_

_PS – Molly and Callum are home. Are you going over to their flat tomorrow? I’ll be there around two, if you wanted to coordinate. You never told me if you heard back from Sherlock._

 

 

-

John grabbed Sherlock’s bare arm and yanked him to an emptier part of the floor. He stood in front of Sherlock, facing him. The stupidest grin was plastered on his face, he could feel it. His lips were tingling a bit from the whiskey and stout, his body warm and flushed, confidence lingering amongst Cassiopeia and the Little Dipper. He watched as Sherlock roved over his figure, paying particular attention to the ink on his arms. John closed his eyes, tilted his head to the side, and it started with a small tick in his left hand. Once he placed the beat, Sherlock was done for. John bit his lip in anticipation. He found it, gave one tug upwards on his right leg’s denim, making room to move, and stepped forward. He opened his eyes, and Sherlock’s mouth parted in response. John’s left hand pressed flat against Sherlock’s chest, and he rolled his hips forward so they were flush with Sherlock’s. He gave Sherlock hips one, lethal grind before bending back, hand finding the concrete, hips parallel with the floor. Sherlock moved his leg further between John’s knees before folding over to pin him to the floor. Each of Sherlock’s hands bracketed John’s skull, and Sherlock’s hip dipped against John’s thigh. Sherlock rolled up to his knees, then to his feet, and John crawled up Sherlock’s body, hands no longer tentative or shy. The entire warehouse was empty, as far as John was concerned. Sherlock, as always, held his undivided attention. John licked his lips, taking a step forward for Sherlock’s every step back, never more than a few centimeters from his body. They moved in a fantastic, sinuous rhythm. Unlike their first dance, it was less sex-in-clothes and so much more about their synchronicity, their ability to move jointly. _Together_. John found that every time Sherlock’s body touched his, a tiny flame lit there, burning out until his flesh was nothing but smoldering embers. Sherlock’s hand laced around John’s neck, fingers carding through the silvery blonde at the base of his neck; they swayed side to side, rocking on their feet. John stepped to the side and laughed aloud, in pure awe of Sherlock’s ability to predict his every movement. They faced opposite walls, and for every swing of a leg or folding of an arm, the other had a counter gesture that balanced it perfectly. John felt something break free in his chest; a bubble of elation, at the discovery of this man, the pulse of this fantastic song, knowing they had onlookers, being associated with him: Sherlock and Shezza alike, the look on Sherlock’s face in response to John feigning ignorance in the center of the dance circle, at his ability to let the fuck go and just _enjoy the hell out of this man, in every fucking way imaginable._ He slipped in front of Sherlock, back to his chest, and felt Sherlock’s hand, hot and possessive, on his left hip, Sherlock’s lips on the pulse point of his neck. He could feel his full lips curving into a smile against his sweat covered skin.

“John. Holding out on me, were we?” Sherlock whispered. John suddenly felt hotter.

“Me? Never. I’m the predictable one.” John reached backwards and clawed at Sherlock’s thigh.

“Enigma. We discussed this.”

“Are you impressed?”

Sherlock gave a grind of his hips against John’s backside. John smirked.

“I’d say that’s, ahh… a firm yes.”

Sherlock chuckled. His voice was echoing in John’s ear, melted gold: “Should we, um, get out of here?”

“Is that what you say to everyone you bring into your bed?” John turned to face him, smug grin on his face. Sherlock feigned offense. John turned to face Tito, fishing his mobile out.

“Tito, will you take a photo for me?” Sherlock turned to look at him, eyes curious and brow furrowed.

“Well, you weren’t in any photos with me tonight, and I know you want to keep yourself tucked away as much as possible. But I want one. For me. Promise I won’t post it up on any social media.”

Tito counted down, and John felt Sherlock lace his arm around John’s shoulders and relax. The flash went off, and Tito looked down at the phone, grinning.

“It’s a good one, yeah.”

John zoomed in a bit. Sherlock looked perfect: flushed and his hair slightly damp, his bright teeth even whiter from the flash of the camera, and John secretly loved the way he fit perfectly into the crook of Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You look great together.” Ginger was peering over John’s shoulder. He smiled, surprised.

“Thank you, Ginger. He’s a fox, but I think we work. Maybe.”

“Definitely. Coming back soon I hope?”

“When’s the next event?” Sherlock asked, his chest rumbling against John’s spine, thumb rubbing small circles against his shoulder blade. John’s skin broke out in gooseflesh at Sherlock’s small displays of affection amongst these hundreds of people.

“Three weeks from today.”

“We should be able to make that.”

“Good. We’ll see you boys then.”

“Nice to meet all of you. Tonight was lovely.” John offered to Sherlocks’s mates.

“You’re lovely.” Sky offered, a small smile taking her mouth.

John blushed, and offered a bow. Chachi curtsied in return.

“Tito, Graham, Izzi, it’s been good.” John couldn’t help but laugh at Sherlock’s use of slang. Sherlock tugged John by a belt loop towards the door. As they waved their goodbyes to Duke and Troy, John saw a car waiting by the docks.

“For us?” John inquired.

“Yes.” John looked up at Sherlock, attempting to keep pace with his long legs. The alcohol seemed to be kicking his arse a bit more than he thought. The eyes that found his were quite not what he expected: wide, dark and quite hungry. John’s pulse quickened as Sherlock held the door to the car open for him.

John slid inside and quickly thumbed out a text.

**Don’t be so quick to assume. I had a very hot date tonight. Tomorrow at two sounds perfect. Should I invite him?**

John attached the picture to the text, and pressed send. Within a minute, his mobile chimed.

_Are you on drugs? YES, BRING HIM, GOD I’M DYING. Ps, you BOTH look hot as hell, sweet baby jesus. Is there a reason you look twenty-two again? And is Sherlock wearing… jeans?_   
**Definitely not on drugs. And yes, there’s a reason… I’ll explain it tomorrow, too much to type out in a text. Soon to be preoccupied.  
PS – yes. Burgundy ones. HNNNNNG. **

John pulled the image up on his phone again, grinning. He felt Sherlock peering over his shoulder. His cheekbone rested against his hair.

“You’re gorgeous, John.” John felt like a fish out of water. Sherlock had complimented him before, and obviously felt a certain way about him or could at least be turned on by him. But for some reason, this was different. They were out of the madness of the warehouse, away from strangers and friends alike, and out of the context of hot dancing and indeed, feeling twenty-two again, the comment was tender. Geniune. Lovely.

“I think we look incredible together,” John attempted, his voice barely audible. He looked back at the photo, and decided to do a very twenty-two year old thing: he set the photograph as his home screen. Sherlock kissed his temple at that, and then his mouth was moving down his ear, to his neck, soft lips against salty skin.

“Agreed. Now, about those experiments…”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
>  _Stay High_ \- Tove Lo [Ginger, Sky, and Chachi]  
>  _Don't Hold the Wall_ \- Justin Timberlake [Sherlock dancing for John]  
>  _Closer ~~I wanna fuck you like an animal~~_ \- Nine Inch Nails [John and Sherlock]  
>  _Climax_ \- Keys n Krates [John Freestyle]  
>  _Real_ \- Years and Years [John and Sherlock]
> 
> Inspiration for Sherlock's [dancing](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GegLHQcNooY)  
> Inspiration for "Shezza's [Crew"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qH8LvSJXpH0&list=UUGzGbfhdFsjP1yfJUEpSvWg&index=24)  
> Tove Lo [Remix](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SYM-RJwSGQ8)  
> Inspiration for Sky, Ginger, and [Chachi](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uPdhKogF-_k)  
> Inspiration for John's Beat Boy [Badassery](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=37pwbUp8t1I)
> 
> *The Underground isn't necessarily a real organization, group, or event in London. The idea of it was inspired mostly by Underground street dancing, but also by The Adjustment Bureau. For those of you that haven't seen it, PLEASE WATCH IT. It's so. fucking. amazing.  
> *Chachi is a real woman, and she is incredible. I have already linked one of her videos here, but if you want to do a little more research on her, her name is Chachi Gonzales. She's fantastic.  
> *I have already casted all the new additions, and am working on adding them to my character list. The only recognizable ones would by Rooney Mara as Sky and Jude Law as Graham Norton.  
> *Supras are a foxy and fantastic brand of skate shoes.  
> *bboy is interchangeable with beat boy. It's basically breakdancing. Thanks, mollyloo, for that little tidbit and gorgeous idea  
> Please don't hate me for leaving this where I did! If I continued, it'd surely be a 12,000 word chapter, and I want to be consistent with length! Fear not, I will pick up EXACTLY where I left off...
> 
> I love you, darlings! Thoughts? Ideas? Comments? GIVE IT ALL TO ME.


	12. Ardent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **ar·dent**  
>  ˈärdnt/  
> adjective
> 
> 1\. having, expressive of, or characterized by intense feeling; passionate; fervent:
> 
> 2\. intensely devoted, eager, or enthusiastic; zealous:
> 
> 3\. vehement; fierce:
> 
> 4\. burning, fiery, or hot:
> 
>  
> 
>  **Hey, you gorgeous creatures**  
>  Sorry, so not sorry, for this nearly 9,000 word chapter.  
> I'm severely invested in this chunk of text. I hope it warms your heart as it does mine.  
> Read, weep, gasp, be merry.  
> XoX, hamishh

[10]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He couldn’t lie; John had expected the arrival at his flat to tense him up immensely. He was waiting for his muscles to wind tight under his skin, for his hands to tremble, to feel the movement of his blood in every vein, artery and capillary in his body. None of that happened. The door opened and John was passing through it, feeling out of his flesh, watching Sherlock watching him, peeling his jumper over his head, the sleeves dragging slowly across his arms.

It was impossibly unhurried. John’s heart was steady and strong in his chest. Everything was perfectly in focus and simultaneously blurred around the edges. The cream fabric hit the floor and Sherlock was moving away from him, looking over his shoulder, beckoning John to follow. Sherlock toed out of his trainers in the sitting room on the way to the hall, the sleeveless shirt flung carelessly in an open bedroom, and as he arrived at the bathroom door, he held John’s eyes as his hands addressed the button and zip of his denim. Sherlock tugged his feet from the tight jeans, his whole body standing and filling the frame of the doorway. _Go on then, John. I want to see you._

He hated the distance. John moved forward as he shrugged out of his flannel, balling it and tossing it behind him. He relished the teasing, satisfied smirk on Sherlock’s beautiful mouth. John grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it up and over in one fell swoop, dropping it next to his feet. He folded over to unlace his Chucks, face agonizingly close to the ever growing hardness pressing against the thin cotton of Sherlock’s pants. He kicked off his sneakers, unbuttoned his jeans and pressed his cheek against Sherlock’s barely-covered erection. His last step out of his jeans put him flush against Sherlock, and John ran his left hand along Sherlock’s clavicle, kissed the tendons that lined the hollow of Sherlock’s throat, caressed the craters of his collarbones with the damp softness of his tongue. Sherlock’s head fell back against the wood of the door, his warm exhales coating John’s neck as he savored Sherlock’s skin, skeleton, and scent. John slipped his hand round to the small of Sherlock’s back, pulling him closer, and the other hand went to the handle of the door, swinging it open. John crowded him into the small room and shut them inside.

He sat Sherlock down on the closed lid of the loo, and crawled on top of him. He kissed him slowly, evenly, thoroughly. There was no clashing of teeth, no growling or fierceness as John had predicted earlier in the evening. Instead, there was a flicker of heat, burning in them both, and no verbal acknowledgement of it was needed in order to be painfully aware of it. Sherlock’s strong hands were gripping into the dimples at the small of John’s back, dragging his hips in and down. John’s head lolled back in a wordless, soundless gasp as Sherlock made love to his neck. One of John’s hands was tangled in Sherlock’s hair, the other digging gently into the man’s oblique, red marks slowly blooming in the fingers’ wake. The cupids bow planted a soft kiss on John’s sternum before one of Sherlock’s hands freed itself from the clutches of John’s gray pants to run the tap. The sound of water against tile soothed John even further, the humidity beginning to cling to his skin. Sherlock pressed his fingertips against John’s chest, and John followed their inertia, up and off his legs. Sherlock placed John between his still-sitting knees, running his hands along the strong lines of John’s back, sculpted and defined. He placed his cheek against John’s abdomen, brushing open-mouthed, reverent kisses along the lines of his body. John hummed quietly, hand twisting into the soon-to-curl hairs at the nape of his neck. Sherlock’s thumbs found themselves resting inside the elastic waistband of John’s pants, Sherlock’s eyes moving upward to find John’s. Their expression was soft, laid open, vulnerable and accepting. Sherlock tugged the pants slowly down John’s legs, savoring the exposure of skin underneath. Pliant kisses were pressed to the inside of each of John’s hipbones. John’s hands found Sherlock’s resting midway down John’s thighs, and he laced their fingers together, giving a small pull upwards. Taking the indication, Sherlock rose to his feet. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, slipping his hands inside the back of his pants and pulling them down and off. One of Sherlock’s hands was cupping the side of John’s face, covering most of it in its graceful and fascinating enormity, and kissed him tenderly on the mouth. John absently reached for the curtain to the shower, stepping in backwards and pulling Sherlock in with him.

The water hit John’s skin, the repelling beads of liquid spraying Sherlock’s chest. John ran his fingers through the droplets on his dewy skin, drawing the words he didn’t have to speak. Sherlock clutched John’s hand to his chest, and delivered a more fervent kiss, the first appearance of tongue arriving between John’s parted lips. John’s hands began to behave of their own accord, recording every ripple in Sherlock’s flesh, every flex of each muscle, the rotation of the joints in Sherlock’s shoulders and neck, the places that gathered water and the places that had not yet seen it. Sherlock ran his hands through John’s hair as he ducked under the spray of water. Those hands followed the droplets trailing down John’s neck and chest. Sherlock pressed a chaste and silent kiss to the scar on John’s left shoulder, unassuming, asking nothing, expecting nothing, his thumbs caressing the rise and fall of John’s biceps lovingly. Their hands were then covered in foam, moving carefully, meticulously, over every part of the others body. Their upper arms, the smalls of their backs, the cleft of their backsides, the smooth, strong curves of their arses, the backs of their knees, behind their ears. John gathered Sherlock under the falling water, brushing the long hair back and away from Sherlock’s eyes, thumbing away the stray wetness from his brows.

Sherlock broke out in gooseflesh, tears pricking strongly at the corners of his eyes as John took the shampoo in his hands to Sherlock’s scalp, rubbing his fingers in tiny circles until the lather was running down Sherlock’s back. He pulled John’s chin up and kissed him hard. _How could you know exactly what I need? How could you possibly know?_ John returned with an equal ferocity. The heat of the water had started to wane, and John tilted Sherlock’s chin back, delicately tracing the lines of Sherlock’s veins and arteries in his neck as he rinsed the soap out of his hair. The tap was cut off, and they took flannels to their hair. John smiled at the wet strands plastered to Sherlock’s forehead, the rest mussed and disheveled. He kissed the smirk off Sherlock’s face. _Do you know how perfect I believe you to be?_

The steam poured out into the warmth of the hallway, and John led the way to the bedroom. The worn, Persian rug was soft beneath their damp, bare feet. John gave Sherlock a gentle push onto the bed. He placed one knee between Sherlock's two, and pressed his hand flat against his chest. Sherlock smiled, a different one tonight, a new one, soft and encouraging and brave. John felt warmth blossom deep in his ribcage. His hands bracketed Sherlock's tangled hair, nearly long enough now to fan out across a pillow. John's arms bent at the elbows, lowering to kiss Sherlock's Adam's apple, the sharpest line of his cheekbones, the soft, fluttering skin of his eyelids, the red, swollen warmth of his lips. He felt Sherlock's hips rock up against his thigh. Sherlock kissed the gasp straight from John’s mouth, his hands untamed and wandering across all of John's flesh.  
  
John folded his left leg at the knee, carefully aligning himself with the prominent curvatures of Sherlock's pelvic bone, the pale flesh blushing further with every kiss, every tiny caress, every bite of a lip and slip of a quiet, muffled moan. He moved his right leg out from between Sherlock's legs, pulling Sherlock up to sit, and wrapped both legs around Sherlock’s back. He then pressed himself into the dip of Sherlock's shoulder, wrapping his arms around the whipcord muscle of Sherlock's back. He felt heat encompass him, powerful arms wrapping around him, one hand carding through his hair.  
  
Those elegant hands left John's upper body and instead traced the length of John's legs. They started on the tops of his feet, following the lines of his shins, caressing the scuffs, knots and scars of his battered knees, lovingly kneading the strong muscle of his thighs until they came to rest at the junction of his hips. Thumbs ghosted across the pale, unseen flesh of John Watson, the men’s mouths stealing the tiny sounds that escaped their lips. Sherlock gave a gentle rock into John’s hips, moaning softly at the friction, his fingers grasping firmer into the skin of John’s back. He pulled John on top of his thighs, wrapping his arms around John’s entirety, pressing their chests together, their hips, their insistent and eager erections, Sherlock’s mouth open on John’s neck. John clutched Sherlock, one arm around his neck, the other cradling the back of Sherlock’s skull, holding him as though he were something divine and unattainable, something that could evaporate into thin air if he didn’t hold him tight enough, close enough, strong enough. John’s eyes were tightly closed, eyebrows pitched up, the pulse point at his neck thrumming rapidly, mouth slack, hips rolling into Sherlock’s. Sherlock sank forward, resting John on his back. He kissed John slowly, first on his lips, savoring that John was nearly too wrecked to engage. He kissed his ear, first the shell, then a line from the tender skin beneath it to the rise of his clavicle. His hands joined his mouth, trailing delicately down John’s sides, following the glistening aftermath of Sherlock’s lips. _I will always worship you._

A soft whimper left the back of John’s throat. Sherlock hummed in response, earning him the gorgeous sight of John opening his heavy eyes to look at him. He ran a hand through Sherlock’s drying hair, and Sherlock felt emotion, heavy and thick, fall like a blanket around them both. John blinked, appreciation and surprise swimming in his eyes. _No one has ever cherished me. Thank you._ John’s hands slowed, moving in a way Sherlock recognized; John analyzing, observing, absorbing. He felt the calloused fingers sweep steadily across his back, his arms, hesitating at the patches of roughened skin at his elbows, venturing to his nape, delicately touching Sherlock’s humidity-tormented curls. Sherlock stilled, trying desperately to keep his eyes open, to record John’s eyes, the swollen quality they possessed, red-rimmed and gentle, vulnerability present and paired with an overbearing wave of fondness, as he admired every square inch of Sherlock’s body.

John’s fingers quietly caressed the line of Sherlock’s jaw, his brow, the outer rim of his ear. He tried to reign in the overwhelming amount of sentiment that flooded him. As he kissed Sherlock, lips smooth and soft and warm above his, he found himself discovering that Sherlock would quench any thirst, emotional, mental, or physical, that John could possibly need. He felt raw and exposed, like Sherlock had found a way to crawl into his body and merge their existence together: their bloodstreams rushing and expanding, their cerebral communications doubling, the gorgeous zapping and flickering of neurons, twice the stability in their bones, twice the strength. Calm snatched John in an unrelenting grasp, his focus present only to discern the smallest, most insignificant details of Sherlock’s body.

He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and rocked himself up, settling on top of the lean, sinuous line of gorgeous anatomy now beneath him. Sherlock’s collarbones were lovely, having more anterior and posterior travel than most. The place where his sternum met the long, bowing line of his ribs was prominent, moving with Sherlock’s deep breaths. John gave a soft open-mouthed kiss to a dusky, raised nipple, tenderly pulling it between his teeth to lap at it with an attentive tongue. The first sound to leave Sherlock’s mouth was a rich, dark moan, his back bowing, pushing his chest closer to John’s. He wrapped a strong arm underneath the bridge constructed by Sherlock’s spine and held him tight. _I’ve got you._ There was long, thin scar that ran half the length of Sherlock’s ribcage, the tiny dashes of past stitches barely visible. The new flesh shone a brighter pink against the rest of his fair skin, ivory against the inevitable freckle and sun of John’s arms. He kissed it in length, one small kiss directly beside the next. Sherlock braced one foot against the duvet, bending his leg at the knee, and rocked into the warmth of John’s hip. John gave a breathy exhale against Sherlock’s chest and continued to cradle this exquisite man as his hips oscillated against John. He laced his arm under the crook of Sherlock’s other knee, and sat up, folding his knees underneath him. With his mouth, he traced the muscles of Sherlock’s thigh, working his way across to his knee. Sherlock’s head sunk further into the duvet, turning away from John, the ligaments of his neck arching into beautiful webs. He planted a soft kiss to Sherlock’s kneecap, bony amongst the lean muscle of the rest of his body. Sherlock’s hand wound up to clutch at John’s shoulder, attempting to pull him down. John obeyed, drawing Sherlock’s legs tightly around his waist. Sherlock’s eyes were unrefined, wild in their expression, and both his hands tugged at John’s hair, his neck, the thin skin between his shoulder blades. John hissed at the sensation of nails along his ribs. Sherlock found his mouth like a collision of two momentous objects: hard, unyielding, and unforgiving. John absorbed the crash; he enveloped Sherlock in his arms, and for every bite of a lip, every slip of tongue endeavoring to explore, every rasping breath, John was there to meet him fervently. John pulled Sherlock up, pulled him as close as he could; he wanted his skin to vibrate at their contact.

Their eyes met; John’s heart exploded. Sherlock’s brows were arched, eyes penetrating, stoicism abandoned. John had never felt so needed in all his life. He was amazed at all the ways Sherlock could communicate what he wanted or needed without ever uttering a single syllable. Holding Sherlock’s eyes with his own, feeling splayed open, he moved his hand between their two tangled bodies. He watched Sherlock read him as if he were printed in large scale text, wonder and lust and something else, so tender and soft and pure, mixed up in those silvered eyes. John leaned forward to kiss Sherlock’s mouth. _May I have you this way?_ He touched Sherlock gently, a ghosting of fingers against hard, swollen flesh, and Sherlock gasped, pulling air from John’s open mouth. Their lips lingered, exchanging the remnants of their lungs, occasional contact of their mouths electrocuting John down to his now overly-supplied blood cells. A shudder dove up his spine at the joining of Sherlock’s hand, curious, delicate, and gentle. John’s body keened at the sensation of their fingers interlocked, his breath shaking out of his body as Sherlock’s eyes kept his. John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s, nose brushing his cheek, as they found a rhythm together. Sherlock shifted enough to kiss John on his temple, the bone above his brows, the bridge of his nose.

John’s breathing grew into shallow, small gusts. John lifted his forehead from Sherlock’s chest, greeted with a desperate kiss from Sherlock’s searching lips. One long inhale was pulled, and Sherlock felt his eyes prick with tears as he read John’s body, piece by piece: the muscle of his thighs pulled taut, the perfect arch of his back and neck, mouth open, gasp frozen somewhere deep in his throat, ready to pour out in the gorgeous moments to follow this one, the gentle pull of Sherlock’s hair where John’s fingers interlaced with his strands, needing contact, John’s other hand clawing desperately for purchase between the shoulder blades of Sherlock’s back. John’s eyes fluttered open. Sherlock’s heart clenched in his chest. John’s lids were half-mast, pupils dilated, eyes opening direct lines of communication with Sherlock’s hard wiring. There was no filter, no misconception, no question. John’s hand stroked tenderly at Sherlock’s nape. He pulled Sherlock closer, kissed him as if he were a life source, and stayed there as his body went still. Taken aback, Sherlock’s mouth found John’s again. _I’ve got you._ As the first wave of ecstasy wracked through John’s body, Sherlock nearly sobbed as his own followed suit. He was enveloped by the sounds spilling from John’s mouth, beautiful murmurs and broken whispers, and pure, unaltered white. Their lips grazed, exchanging an electric pulse that could short-circuit the entirety of London. John stroked the side of Sherlock’s face as they found their way back to a moderate equilibrium. Sherlock was trying to keep his composure; tears were threatening to pour with heartless abandon. He had a strong feeling that John could see straight through him. Sherlock pulled them onto their sides and John gave him a dazzling kiss; it was solid, firm, his tongue soft against the roof of his mouth. _You are what I want._ Sherlock brushed the unruly blonde from John’s forehead, and watched as his eyes grew heavy. He felt his hand slow, heard John’s breathing settle, felt a warm hand on his hip, and then there was nothing.

 

 

-

Sherlock woke to the sound of a text alert, coming from somewhere in the hall. He scrubbed a hand over his face in an attempt to shake off his disorientation. It was very early morning, still dark out, and he could hear John breathing. He relaxed momentarily, carefully turning over onto his side. He could barely make out John’s silhouette even against the moonlit window. Sherlock didn’t have to see John to know the man was probably stunning as ever, even when he slept. He slowly rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom.

After he cleaned himself up, he started to search the flat to find his belongings. _I stripped. Bit dodgy, that._ He smiled as he retrieved his Supras. His sleeveless shirt was waiting somewhere in John’s room, but he couldn’t bring himself to wake him. He stood inside the bedroom, waiting for his eyes to adjust even a miniscule amount so he could make out a mound of fabric lurking on the floor.

He shifted back and forth on his feet. He didn’t want to go. He wanted to crawl back into bed and take a damp flannel to John, kiss him awake, clean him up, and drag him under the covers. But he hadn’t been invited to stay. If he was truthful with himself, he was nervous of John’s reaction after having time to articulate a proper response to everything that had transpired. Nothing about their lovemaking had said casual, non-committed, or unlikely-to-occur-again. But they hadn’t discussed it, before or after, and like a dolt, he’d fallen asleep without engaging that conversation. _I’m absolute pants at this shit._

He heard a soft, throaty chuckle come from the bed. Sherlock froze, though he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as if his mental pacing had been the thing to wake John. He heard the covers rustling, and saw the outline of John walking toward him. Clothes were being taken from his hands and dropped to the floor. A warm mouth found his and gave him a slow, sated kiss. “Stay,” John whispered against Sherlock’s lips. His voice was like a storm; low, strong, and unfazed. It crashed over Sherlock and wrapped him up tight. Sherlock walked back into the hall and returned, moments later. He found John in the dark and pushed him onto the edge of the bed. He took a warm, damp flannel to John’s skin, and tossed it to the floor as John pulled the covers back. John slipped in, moving over to make room for Sherlock. As soon as Sherlock was horizontal, John leaned up on an elbow and hovered over him, fingers trailing along his arm. Sherlock tilted his chin up, in search of John’s mouth, and he eventually found it.

They kissed away the questions, hesitation, and curiosity, at least for the night. They would have the morning to discuss any and all events the evening had held. _I get to see him wake._ Sherlock rolled over to his side and assumed his normal sleeping position: one knee up, one leg extended, one arm tucked under his pillow and the other curled underneath him. John mirrored him, lacing one leg around Sherlock’s elongated one, returning a hand to Sherlock’s bony hip, and tucking his chin near Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock fell asleep savoring the warm huffs of John’s breath on his neck.

 

 

-

_Is John bringing Sherlock?_   
**I’m pretty sure he is, yes. I got my last text from him close to two am… he had asked me if he should bring him and I said hell yes. We thought two was a good time. Does that work for you two?**   
**PS – HOLY SHIT, YOU ARE AN EVERETT. I can’t believe you’re married. I mean. I can. But damn.**   
**How was the honeymoon?**   
_He didn’t respond after that? And yes! Haha! Two weeks an Everett! Still getting used to that bit… the honeymoon was incredible, but we’ll tell you all about it tomorrow! I’m exhausted. That flight’s a bit of a nightmare. As are American airports…_   
**No, but he did say he was going to be preoccupied.**   
**And YAY! I can’t wait to hear!**   
_Preoccupied? Sweet god. They mean business, don’t they?_   
**I believe so.**   
_Is John okay? He was… struggling with this a while back._   
**Molly, just wait. I cannot wait to SEE them together. When John talks about him, I feel like he could literally serve as a power source for all of London. That’s how bright he lights up. It’s fucking perfect.**   
**I don’t think I ever looked like that talking about Ian.**   
_Oh god! This is going to be SO WEIRD! So much happened in two weeks! I wonder how Callum’s going to react… I am so excited._   
_Speaking of Ian, have you guys talked at all?_   
**Surely John and Callum had chatted about it? John acts like he and Callum are basically signed into the same brainwave channel. I would assume Callum would know immediately, with or without words.**   
**No, we haven’t. Better that way, I think… I went out on a few dates with B, though.**   
_I would think you’re right. Still, it’s going to be… something worth watching to see Callum observe John and Sherlock together. And Sherlock… jeez. It’s gonna be a Lucy in the Sky kind of day tomorrow._   
_B Collins? Oh god, he’s fantastic. I adore that boy. Wish I could adopt him, even though he’s not five years younger than me._   
**You don’t think it’ll go awry, do you? And giggles! Trippy as hell? YES!**   
**And yeah, B Collins. Sweetheart. Not sure that’s meant to pan out just now, though.**   
_I don’t think so. I think it’ll be a bit odd at first, but it’ll settle out._   
_No? How come?_   
**Told myself I wanted to be alone and that I needed time. I think it’s time I actually follow my own rules. Just this once.**   
_Agreed. Yes. Tomorrow is going to be wonderful. Get some rest, we’ll chat more then. Love you, J._   
**Night, Mols. Love you most.**

 

 

-

_Holy hell, I’m gone two weeks and I come home to chaos. You have quite a bit of explaining to do, Watson. I mean, I know you sort of… dealt with it. But it’s kind of happening. I’m sort of beside myself._   
_Can’t wait to meet him, mate. Know he about damn near killed you just by being alive, so I’m eager to see him in the flesh._   
_Missed you, by the way. Am I allowed to say that?_

 

 

_-_

Sherlock’s eyes blinked once, twice. He opened them wide, momentarily panicked at his location. He felt the heavy hand thrown carelessly about his waist. He slipped out from under it, quickly and quietly, knowing John was in the middle of a deep sleep cycle. Sherlock stood by the side of John’s bed, resting his back against the still-shaded wall of the room.

John was breathtaking. Sherlock felt a strange ache in his chest just from watching him sleep. It was an overcast day; the greys and blues leaking through the glass panels of the window toned John back; he had less of a glow and Sherlock was appreciative of this. His skin tinted cool made him seem more human, more attainable, more worthy of Sherlock’s touch, though that much was certainly still up for debate. Sherlock hardly believed himself to be worthy of a man of John’s character. He was curled up around the empty space that had housed Sherlock’s body. Thoughts of the previous night filled his vision.

 _We exchanged one word._ An unexpected sound left his throat at the realization.

He snagged a dressing robe from the back of John’s bedroom door and made his way into the sitting room of the flat. As he slipped into the nearly too short gown, tying it snugly about his waist, he stepped in front of one of many bookshelves lining John’s living space. There were a few framed photographs: One of John and Callum, much younger, likely age 15. Callum’s hair was long and he was grinning, looking down at John. John’s face was a bit rounder, but handsome all the same. There was another of Molly, her hair done up in two braids. She looked youthful, likely their uni years. Another one of John’s teammates, whoever the shaggy haired blonde was… _Ethan? Egan?_ was pictured with his now-wife. A Christmas card from _The Future Everetts_ was perched on the bottom shelf, both with Callum and Molly’s signatures.

The book collection was surprising. Sherlock smiled as he plucked _The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo_ from the shelf. It had not yet been read; the spine was far too stiff. It had been a favorite of Sherlock’s. He made a mental note to encourage John to read it. John would surely be attracted to Lisbeth the same ways he had been. _Water for Elephants_ was on the shelf underneath, and Sherlock pulled it. The spine was worn, the pages broken in and smelling slightly of cedar and John’s cologne. He inhaled and smiled. The front cover had an inscription:

 

_My darling John,_

_We know how much you love to write. Thought you’d be impressed; this book was created as a result of NanoWrimo. We both read it and thought instantly of you, in another life. Please know how much we love and adore you and how grateful we are for your compassion and unending kindness. This has been a difficult year for all of us… know we will give you anything we possibly can. All you must do is ask._

_“I loved her_   
_not for the way_   
_she danced with my angels_   
_but for the way_   
_the sound of_   
_her name_   
_could silence_   
_my demons.”_

_-Christopher Poindexter_

_We love you, John._   
_Callum & Molly_   
_2012_

 

Sherlock read the inscription several times over. It was incredible, how much you could glean of someone’s character by what others say of them, or to them. He felt tempted to ask John to loan him the book. He hadn’t read it, and was suddenly quite interested in seeing how John was represented through the characters of that novel in particular.

 _He writes._ Sherlock tried to imagine what sort of things John would write about. Autobiographical wouldn’t necessarily do; he possessed far too much humilty to be comfortable writing a book about himself, although it seemed he would have plenty of content. A narrative could be a possibility. He pictured John writing a comedy; something quick, clever, and light. On the other end, however, he was probably a man with great power over his words. John could write a successful drama, he was certain. He returned the book to its place on the shelf. As he began to head towards the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee, a thin, navy spine caught his attention. There was no title inscribed on the cover. He opened it to a blank front page. He thumbed carelessly through it, but began to slow as he realized it was filled with handwritten words. _A journal?_ He opened it at one page.

 

 

 

 

> _[Today the fury unleashes_   
>  _as emotions are being purged_   
>  _whiskey and coffee_   
>  _Incubus on the radio_   
>  _through the jumble of sticky words_   
>  _I select these:_   
>  _slender but immense, we burn.]_
> 
>  

Oh. _OH._ Poetry. He flipped to the next page, unable to help himself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _[Black Eyed Susans stare me down_   
>  _as I cross the dampened ground_   
>  _when you’re lost, you can’t be found_   
>  _and that is how I want it._
> 
> _I looked up and saw your unruly hair_   
>  _and the relentless shine of a solar flare_   
>  _but you didn’t have time to catch my stare_   
>  _before the silver stole you._
> 
> _It took me forever to finally weep_   
>  _I was so convinced you were just asleep_   
>  _but no, my love, you I don’t get to keep_   
>  _I wish it had been me._
> 
> _Those damn white lines streaked with red_   
>  _and you weren’t even hanging by a thread_   
>  _gone when they finally rested your head_   
>  _they shouldn’t fucking touch you._
> 
> _All this time has passed since then_   
>  _Your blue eyes would weep at all my sin_   
>  _I’ve died and tried coming back again_   
>  _hoping to drag you with me_
> 
> _These selfish bastards only take and take_   
>  _It’s impossible to live with this mistake_   
>  _You know I will carry it to my grave_   
>  _But at least then I can see you.]_
> 
>  

Sherlock stared at the page. Several minutes passed. He ran his hands across the water stained pages, _no, tear stained_ , soaking in the ripples, the indention of the pen tip into the paper, _written in anger or emotional turmoil_ , the frantic state of his handwriting. Sherlock felt like he had betrayed John. _I have learned far too much without proper invitation._ He felt a new pain bloom in his chest, sharp and rigid against his sternum.In an attempt to see if anything had been written recently, he turned the page. The date was only a week prior. It was the first thing John had written in nearly two years.

 

 

 

 

> _My breath has halted in my chest._   
>  _You are beautiful, yes. But it’s more._   
>  _Your eyes. Did you strip me apart?_   
>  _What is left to be known of me?_   
>  _Who are you to analyze?_
> 
> _My dreams are fraught with visions of you._   
>  _I only know your name, yes. It’s an odd one._   
>  _Your voice. What could it sound like to me?_   
>  _Would it resonate in my dull ears?_   
>  _Can I hear something beautiful?_
> 
> _My fingers won’t stop trembling._   
>  _You are brilliant, yes. I am fearful._   
>  _Your heart. Does it feel the same as mine?_   
>  _Would you allow me to carry it?_   
>  _How could I ever be enough?_
> 
> _jw_
> 
>  

Sherlock’s heart throbbed under his lungs. _You are a fool, John Watson. An absolute fool. Of course, yes._

 

 

-

John stirred, rolling over onto his back. He wiped the sleep from his eyes with the heels of his hands and searched. _There should be something else here…_ he smiled at the smell of coffee leaking into the open door of his bedroom. _And is that bacon?_ John shoved his sheets to the end of the bed with a petulant kick of his legs, stretched, and made his way to his dresser. He dug around until he found a pair of cotton pyjama bottoms, slid them up over his hips, and ventured out into the kitchen. He rounded the corner to find Sherlock standing by the stove, wrapped up in one of his flannel robes. John leaned against the wall and watched him.

His legs were pale against the navy and green plaid, the gown significantly shorter on his tall frame. His hair was a wreck, curls on the crown of his head far more unruly than he was accustomed to, and the hair at the back of his head pressed flat and funny from sleep. John grinned as Sherlock toed open the fridge, keeping his eyes on the fried eggs in the skillet. He pulled out chives and onions, located the cutting board, and wiped the blade of a small knife clean. Sherlock reached up above his head and to the left, selected a hand thrown mug, a gift from Jane for Christmas, and poured a hot cup of coffee. Sherlock turned around and extended his arm, handing the drink to John.

He blinked in surprise, and then grinned. John took a few steps into the kitchen and took the mug. He settled in next to Sherlock by the stove, just out of his way, and continued to watch in silence.

“Sleep well?” John inquired after a few minutes. _How long had he been awake?_

Sherlock swept two eggs onto a plate and looked at John. There was something new in his eyes that John couldn’t quite place. He couldn’t decide if it made him excited or nervous. Sherlock returned the pan to the stove and placed a hand on the side of John’s face, thumb stroking his stubble. “You’re gorgeous in the morning.”

John blushed, and before the red could sweep his cheeks, Sherlock was standing over him, kissing him. John wrapped his free arm around Sherlock’s back and rocked up onto his toes, making Sherlock a bit easier to reach. He felt the cupids bow curve into a grin against his mouth. “I slept famously, thank you,” he murmured. “Hungry?”

“Starved. Aren’t you going to eat?”

“No, I normally just start with a hot cuppa.” He raised John’s favorite mug, a pine green one with a black moose on it.

“You didn’t have to cook me breakfast, Sherlock. It’s my flat, I could have –“

“Hush. Eat.”

John settled in at the dining room table and Sherlock sat across from him, legs folded up in the chair. John took the first bite of his eggs, typically a bit hesitant about having them fried. He hated a particularly runny yolk, but still liked the texture to be there. They were perfect. _Am I surprised?_ John looked up at Sherlock, beaming. “How’d you know?”

“How’d I know what?” he asked, coffee cup hesitant near his lips.

“How I take my eggs.”

“Shot in the dark. Good one, though.” Sherlock smirked as he sipped on his drink. “I was looking at your book selection.”

“Mmm. A bit of an odd one, but there are some fantastic reads.”

“Would you mind if I borrowed one?”

John looked up from his plate, a bit taken aback. Firstly, why would Sherlock want to borrow any of his books? Surely he’d read every one in existence by now. Secondly, that would mean the book would be returned, which also meant that Sherlock intended to see him again _. Although… he did make me breakfast and kiss me good morning. Right, perhaps it was already safe to assume that._

“Of course. Which one?”

“ _Water for Elephants_.”

John nodded slowly. “It’s one of my favorites. Beautiful, that book. Molly and Callum gifted it to me for Christmas a few years ago. I’ve read it nearly four times since.”

“Yes, I nabbed it from your shelf and noticed the inscription. What’s NanoWrimo?”

John chuckled. “It’s a silly thing I used to do. Well, _it_ isn’t silly. Just the fact that I used to fancy myself a writer is. It’s a month long… oh, I dunno, program, or plan, sort of, to help you write a fifty thousand word novel. They give you planning materials, daily suggestions, online forums with other writers. Lots of resources to help. I’ve done it twice. It was a good bit of fun.”

Sherlock stared at him. John finished crunching on his last piece of bacon. “You’ve written two fifty thousand word stories?”

“Yeah. They haven’t been edited or read over. I did it for fun, during off season. Used to keep me sharp.”

Sherlock laughed. It started as a deep chuckle and exited in a resonant baritone, bouncing off everything in the room.

“Oh, come off it, it’s isn’t that funny, you prat!” John joked.

“No, no. It wasn’t meant to be an insult. I’m just amused by you sitting here, pretending it’s a silly pastime when you’ve written two books. And done nothing with them. You’re too humble for your own good, John. Honestly.”

John tilted his head, and then took a small sip of his coffee.

“May I read them sometime?” Sherlock looked hesitant, doubtful.

“Maybe,” John answered. “They’re no good honestly. Hardly worth your time.”

“You can’t know that. No one else has read them, and your opinion is biased.”

John sat quietly for three beats.

“Would you like to go with me to Molly and Callum’s today?”

Sherlock looked at him, blinking like his eyes were having a hard time focusing.

“If you don’t want to, of course you don’t have to, I just. Well. They got back from their honeymoon yesterday and invited us over for tea and a chat. Jane will be there. Thought it’d be nice.” John felt himself growing hot with embarrassment.

Sherlock stood and walked around, picking John’s plate up from the table. He walked to the sink without a word. John felt his stomach nose dive, likely straight out of his arse. He followed Sherlock into the kitchen.

“Really, Sherlock, all you have to do is say no, I totally—“

“I’ll go.”

“Understand if you don’t… What?”

“I said I’ll go. On one condition.”

John gave a hesitant smile. “I feel like this is a trick.”

“Oh, it most certainly is. I’ll go only if you read me something you’ve written.”

“We don’t have time for a one hundred and ten page novel, Sherlock! Our chat’s at two!”

“You haven’t written anything smaller? Goodness, I retract my previous statement about your humility.”

John rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. He glared at Sherlock, obviously trying to feel out how serious he was about this proposition. Sherlock held his ground, stood taller and raised a defiant eyebrow. John concluded he was completely serious. With a sigh, he padded into the sitting room and selected a thin, burlap colored book from a shelf.

“Come in and sit, then. I’m not going to read standing up.”

Sherlock refilled his cup, and grinning for having gotten his way, plopped down on the hounds-tooth sofa. John watched him, preening like a peacock. “Don’t look so damn smug.”

Sherlock winked, and waved a hand in the air. _Proceed._ John flipped through the pages, evidently looking for something in particular. He had passed the halfway point of the book when he found it.

“Okay. Don’t laugh. Just. Shut up and listen.”

“Anything you say, John.” Sherlock was beaming.

“ _You are the fire cackling at the campsite, keeping cold feet warm. You are the dim, warm light, revealing smiling faces. You are the embers that remain late into the night when others believed you had already burned out. You are the black, crunchy crust of a roasted marshmallow. You are the artist’s medium, flying across newsprint. You are the wild, gestural line that gives a work emotion. You are black smudges on creators’ cheeks as they step back to reassess you. You are a resource others wish to mine. Under immense heat and pressure, you create a miracle: something rock solid and beautiful_.”

Sherlock stared at him, face absent of taunt or humor. “Charcoal.”

“Yeah.” John replied plainly. He felt a smile take his face.

“I…” Sherlock looked lost for words. John was dumbfounded. The brunette turned on him and his eyes were nearly painful to look at.

“Oy, it’s just a paragraph, Sherlock! It’s nothing.”

“Thank you. For sharing it.” John nodded, not knowing what else to say. “And you’re wrong, by the way. It’s lovely.”

“So you’ll go drink tea and chat then?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s mouth went crooked in a smirk. “I would have gone without the reading.”

John crawled on top of him and took the coffee mug from Sherlock’s hand. He kissed Sherlock gently on the mouth. “And I would have read a fifty thousand word novel,” he whispered. Sherlock wrapped his hands around John’s waist.

“John?”

“Hm?” John’s mouth was on Sherlock’s neck. He was a bit preoccupied.

“Thank you. For last night.”

John stilled, and then leaned back on Sherlock’s lap. He let his hands rest on Sherlock’s sides, thumbs rubbing lovingly against the flannel fabric. “Was it all right, then?” He chewed on the inside of his cheek.

Sherlock pulled John’s face to his and kissed him. Kissed each lip, kissed the corners of his mouth, and let their tongues slide together. John was clutching the fabric of his own clothing, draped over this incredible, fascinating, beautiful creature, on his sofa, in his flat, and he’d even slept in John’s bed to boot. “Jesus,” John breathed against Sherlock’s face, feeling the inevitable rush of blood between his thighs. Sherlock sat up straighter on the sofa, pulling John’s hips down onto his, and kissed through the cotton of his shirt.

“That isn’t my name, but it'll do...” Sherlock murmured against John’s chest.

John chuckled. “Shower?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Together?”

“Oh God, yes.”

 

 

-

There was a solid knock at the door and Jane squealed. She ran to answer it, making no effort whatsoever to hide her delight. She swung the door open and her chest made a tiny leap. John had a hand in Sherlock’s hair, attempting to calm a wild chunk of curls. Sherlock was grumbling, swatting at John’s wrist.

“Just hold still, Christ.”

“John. Jane’s opened the door, and you’re too busy fixing my hair to be polite.”

Jane grinned ear to ear. John immediately dropped his hand, fiddling with the hem of his jumper instead. A deep blush spread across his cheeks. Jane raised an eyebrow.

“John Watson, are you embarrassed? That _might_ be a first for me to witness.”

“Oh, hush and let us in.” John stepped into the door and grabbed Jane in a tight hug. She wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed, kissing his temple in the process. He pulled away and she smiled brightly at him.

“Jane, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” Sherlock followed and extended his hand. Jane stared at it momentarily, glanced up to Sherlock’s eyes, then back to his hand. “May I hug you instead? Would that be awkward? Or is it already awkward because I’ve just said that?” Sherlock chuckled, nodded, and embraced her. Jane wasn’t exactly sure what she was expecting, but it hadn’t been a warm body and a rather adequate squeeze. A surprised sound came from her mouth and John laughed. They headed toward the Everetts’ sitting room. Jane watched as John and Sherlock lingered near the edge of the sofa. Molly and Callum came in from the back patio, Callum with a beer in his hand. Molly beamed at the sight of them. “Hi!” John and Sherlock both embraced her. She was a bit pink from all the sunshine, skin clear and bright. “I’ve missed you both so much!”

“How was it then?” John asked. Jane sensed a small amount of tension as Callum came further into the room, nursing his Imperial. They had talked and talked about it before the boys arrived. She knew Callum would be fine. _He just has to see what I see._

“It was fantastic,” Callum answered. John turned to him, a small smile on his face. Jane noticed the way his eyebrows arched a bit on his forehead, a small furrow now appearing between them. Sherlock watched on, quiet and observant. Jane was amazed. It had been merely two weeks since they had finally plucked up the courage to pursue one another, and it was like months had unfolded in fourteen days. She couldn’t wrap her head around it. Sherlock stood behind John, arm resting on the back of the couch, not far at all from John’s shoulders. Jane could tell he was dying to touch him, to make contact. _I’ve got you._ She tried desperately to find Sherlock’s eyes, to reassure him he most certainly could do exactly as he pleased. However, she knew him to be a cautious and courteous man. He wanted John to handle this situation as he deemed fit, and until he got the go ahead, Sherlock would stand by, a guardian.

John rose from the couch and raised one of those eyebrows, nearly in a challenge. “Callum, you remember Sherlock?”

“How could I forget? Never met a man with such instrumental talent and a knack for knowing exactly what I feel when I feel it. A bit spooky, that. Sherlock. Welcome.” Sherlock stepped forward and extended his hand yet again. Callum took it. John’s face relaxed right before Jane’s eyes.

“Thank you so much for having us. We know your return trip was a bit stressful. How was the rest of the holiday?”

John stared at the man like he could have kissed him. Jane wished he would. She had an odd, flighty feeling in her stomach. She was so thrilled to see John glowing as if he and Sherlock had been the ones on holiday.

“Tea, and then chat?” Molly asked.

“Yes, that’d be lovely. Can we help?”

Molly shook her head. “No need, kettle boiled right before you arrived. Jane, are you alright to play mother?” Jane laughed.

“I suppose. Not the first time.” John turned to her, grinning.

“Yes, how are your kids?”

Sherlock raised a tentative eyebrow, obviously confused. “You… have children?”

“Yes. 143 of them, to be exact.” Jane winked.

“Ah. I see. What subject do you teach?” Jane’s eyes moved to John’s face. He was beaming. Clever Sherlock. She liked him.

“Secondary art, grades nine through twelve.” Sherlock nodded swiftly, every motion he made an elegant formality. She could see how John may have felt a bit intimidated.

“Brave woman. You are a kind-spirited individual though, filled with a strong desire to not only help develop strong artists, but strong people. It has been a struggle, your adjustment to this year’s student body. Has it not?”

Jane felt her lips parting, and then clamped her jaw shut. John had forewarned her about his ability to deduce. “Yes, actually.”

“But not because they’re particularly bad students.”

It wasn’t a question, and was entirely correct. “Accurate, yet again. Though I have been warned that is nothing unusual. My students this year are fantastic. I love every single one of them. It is the things they endure that I am struggling with.”

“Of course. You are only human. It is often difficult to find ways in which you can relate to such a diverse range of persons, certainly when it comes to empathy and understanding difficult situations. Fear not. You are doing a superb job, if John’s thoughts on the matter are truthful. I would only assume they are seeing as he speaks of you with the utmost level of admiration and respect.”

Jane blazed red and turned to John. “John…”

“Don’t look at me doe eyed!”

“You’ve talked about me?”

John and Sherlock turned and stared at her in unison, eyebrows furrowed.  _Are you an idiot?_ She laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

“’Course I have. You’re one of my best friends.” Something warm melted in her gut. She could kiss them both. She could kiss everyone in this room.

“And you’re one of mine, of course.”

“Well, that’s a debatable decision. John is lacking several admirable qualities…” John swatted Sherlock’s shoulder and shot him a look. Jane clapped a hand over her mouth to hush herself.  _He just made a joke._ Oh, she liked Sherlock quite a lot.

“So. Tell us about holiday.”

 

 

-

“John, a minute, before you go?”

John’s stomach gave a twitch of anxiety. He gave Sherlock’s shoulder a tight squeeze, and walked onto the patio.

“Alright, Everett. What is it?”

Callum was chewing on his lip. John noticed the freshly mangled conditions of his fingers and felt a stab of guilt. They’d only just gotten back from holiday, and Callum was already fretting because of him. Even so, he’d just have to get used to it. Callum turned to face John, the skin around his eyes lighter than the rest of his face from wearing sunglasses. He could see the perplexed look in Callum’s eyes, likely an attempt to come to terms with all this, but also the natural inclination to just try and understand it. _Good luck with that, mate._

“I like him.” Callum shrugged his shoulders and wrung his hands, a nervous laugh following the statement.

“I do, too.” John offered, trying to make this conversation easier. Callum chuckled at that. “I’m sorry. It’s a bit difficult for me, this stuff. I know this isn’t what you were expecting, as your friend or your captain. I hope I haven’t disappointed you or let you down. But he’s… I like him. Holy hell, I like him. I was the last person to suspect any of this, and I've a lot of shit to sort. And a lot of explaining to do to plenty of people. But this is what I want. He’s what I want. Does that… I know it doesn’t make sense…” John scratched the back of his neck, finding himself talking in circles. “He makes me want to stay. To settle and adventure at the same time. To curl up in bed and try sky diving. There’s this weird dichotomy between us. He’s quiet, I’m loud. He’s polite, I’m crude. He’s sophisticated, I’m… well, I’m not. He grounds me and I’d like to think I am capable of lifting him up. I feel right, Callum. I just feel right.”

Callum nodded, and John could see the tears in his eyes. He felt his own brow creasing in confusion before he was slammed into Callum’s chest, the embrace nearly closing his throat off entirely. He wrapped his arms around his best friend, a rush of relief consuming him.

“I love you, John.” Callum whispered. “You know your happiness is all I want. And if this guy is it, well I’ll be fucking damned to have a sour word to say about it.” John felt the tears sting, and damn did they sting, and shamed himself for ever doubting. Of course Callum had his fucking back. When had he ever _not?_ “Right. Get back to him. Dinner later this week? All of us?”

“Course. We’ll have you over.”

Callum smirked and John felt warm at the vision of his friend’s relaxed face. “We?”

John flicked Callum off and he and Sherlock kissed their goodbyes to the girls.

 

 

-

“How’d I do?” Sherlock asked as soon as the door was shut, not even ashamed of his eagerness. John didn’t reply as he trotted down the last few steps from the flat. Sherlock felt a jab of anxiety curl up in his left side. He followed a bit behind John. The man was walking at a fast pace, even for Sherlock’s much longer legs, and wouldn’t quit glancing over his shoulder. Finally he halted in front of an alleyway. Sherlock met him tentatively at his side. “John? Is everything—“

Sherlock felt himself being pulled backwards into the small space between the two larger buildings, and a twist of excitement jolted his bones. John pinned him against the cold brick, hands already in Sherlock’s hair, before he crushed a nearly rabid kiss on Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock gripped John at his ribs and yanked him closer. John’s fingers were combing through Sherlock’s curls in a far gentler manner. Sherlock yipped in surprise as John bit his bottom lip.

“God help me, Sherlock.” John’s breath ghosted across Sherlock’s lips, his left hand now wound tightly in the shirt under Sherlock’s jacket. “You were perfect.” He dropped a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s mouth. “You are perfect.”

“John, don’t pay me such an empty and useless compliment. You know perfection is an ideal created by the absurd and unfair expec—“

“Hush.”

Sherlock folded, gladly, and grasped the lapels of John’s coat.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
>  _Two Weeks_ \- FKA Twigs  
>  _Stellar_ \- Incubus  
>  _Entangled_ \- Imogen Heap
> 
> -first text set is an exchange between Molly and Jane, if you couldn't tell.  
> -the second is Callum  
> -EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU SHOULD READ THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO. Holy shit, Lisbeth Salander is my spirit animal.  
> -Water for Elephants is truly a fantastic story, and truthfully a result of NanoWrimo. Kudos to all my amazing NanoWrimo writers! My friend Emily just finished her first one, and was thrilled!


	13. Illuminate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> il·lu·mi·nate  
> iˈlo͞oməˌnāt/  
> verb
> 
> 1.  
> light up.  
> "a flash of lightning illuminated the house"  
> synonyms: light (up), lighten, throw light on, brighten, shine on, irradiate;
> 
> I'm the worst human on the face of the EARTH for making you wait a month and a half for this chapter. Please, darlings, forgive me and know that I love you. I've been trekking through some crazy shit trying to get sorted. PLUS I had my trip to Seattle. I met some amazing fanartists and authors while I was there. I love our fandom. <3 and I love YOU! I hope you like it; I'm a bit out of practice. Next chapter will be much better. <3

[11]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“So when do you intend to tell me where you learned to dance?” Sherlock was curled up on the couch, feet covered in wool socks and a thick knit blanket. John was bent over, head stuck in the fridge, debating his drink choice.

“That? I think that hardly qualified as proper dancing.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s typically humble and evasive response.

“Please, John. Everyone was impressed, including me, and you are fully aware of it.”

John shut the refrigerator door and winked at Sherlock. He popped open a ginger ale and joined his lanky counterpart on the couch. “Been doing it since I was a kid, actually. It was a thing Callum and I liked. Sort of weird, maybe, but we did everything together. If one of us wanted to learn how to fish, the other researched the best bait and hook. If one of us needed to figure out how to make eggs without them burning straight to the pan, the other went through various experiments to help sort it out: spray, margarine, butter, low heat, high heat. I was fascinated with break dancing, and so I practiced. Looked into it. Met a few people. I showed Callum one afternoon, in secondary school. We were getting ready for rugby practice.”

Sherlock smiled and tilted his chin up. “And so Callum had to learn.”

John shrugged and gave a quiet chuckle. “Of course. He may be my best mate, but we are competitive as hell. We both have to be just as good as the other at anything and everything.”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side in curiosity. “Is Callum any good?”

“Yes, actually. Damn good. Probably better than me, but don’t you dare tell him that.” John took a sip of his soda and set it down on the coaster, tugging some of Sherlock’s blanket over his knees.

“Perhaps he can join us for the next Underground.”

Sherlock felt John’s eyes on him as he faced the telly and drank his tea.

“Was that whole ‘conserve my identity’ bit a hoax or what?”

He looked at John and shook his head. Sherlock’s expression read somewhere between bored and irritated. “No. Graham is aware, but only because he mingles with all sorts as I do. The others aren’t up to date.”

John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock sighed in frustration at John’s insistence on feigning idiocy.

“Callum is your closest friend. I feel comfortable trusting that information with him. If you would like to bring him, you may.”

John’s eyes went wide in surprise. Sherlock raised in his eyebrows in questioning. After a moment, John glanced back to the television and retrieved his drink from the table. His tanned hand rested atop Sherlock’s folded knees, thumb rubbing against his kneecap. “I think for now, I’d like it to be just you and me. If that’s all right.”

Sherlock hummed in response, and rested his head back into the cushions of the sofa. “Jane is quite lovely.”

“Yes. She certainly is. Quite fond of you as well. Of us.”

John felt Sherlock grin next to him. “Don’t worry. I observed.”

“Nice to have people on our team.” Sherlock turned to face John on the couch. John shot him a curious look before Sherlock moved closer, earl grey tinted breath gusting warmly across John’s nose and cheeks.

“I have the captain. I don’t need anyone else.” John giggled in delight and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. His hand trailed through the brown curls as they parted.

“Speaking of Captains and teams. That’s something I ought to address.”

Sherlock nodded curtly. “Yes, best not to leave it to the media or another means of surprise.”

“Right then. Better go ahead and start giving them a ring. Might be good to just have everyone meet at my flat tonight. Does that work for you?”

The brunette’s eyes grew wide, his mouth popping open in fear. John cackled aloud before responding. “Yes, alright, alright. Leave me alone to it, fine.” He kissed the man on the forehead before disappearing into the bedroom.

Sherlock wrapped the blanket tighter around his feet and turned up the volume on the telly.

 

-

 

**So. What did you think?!**   
_About what?_   
**OH MOLLY. Come on! You know ‘about what!’**   
_They’re… amazing. Hahaha. Sherlock is so affectionate. And protective. And John, well. I can’t recall ever seeing him like this._   
**AH! I AM SO HAPPY. How’s Callum?**   
_He’s okay. A little shell-shocked, I think, but he’ll be fine. He’s happy for John._   
**Perfect. We should all go out soon! A night on the town or something. I don’t mind being a fifth wheel!**   
_Why don’t you bring B?_   
**I don’t know, Mols. I’m not sure that’s the best idea. I really like him. I like him too much, actually.**   
_Too much? Haha, how is that?_   
**Don’t laugh, Molly, I’m really torn up about this! He’s fantastic! He’s so fucking smart, charming, intelligent, motivated, driven. He makes me feel important. Like I’m worth listening to, like everything I say is melted gold. It’s terrifying. He terrifies me.**   
_Okay. Okay, I wasn’t actually laughing. It just seemed weird, that coming out of your mouth. Have you talked to B about… all of this?_   
**About how I’m 92% sure I’m already nuts in love with him? Ahhh, no. Must’ve slipped my mind.**   
_Oh Jane._   
**Yes. Yeah.**   
_Okay. So maybe you should talk to B, and NOT about the fact that you’re in love with him… maybe just tell him you need a little time?_   
**Yeah.**   
_I’m sorry, love. What can I do?_   
**Nothing. You’re perfect. Just keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll sort the rest out eventually.**

 

**-**

 

John packed the last sixer in the fridge when the bell rang to the front door. He let out an exhale, gave a stern, reassuring nod to himself, and made his way to the foyer. His teammates were piled up on the stairs, grinning and toting drinks of all kinds under their coated arms and mitted hands.

“Watson.” Callum stood front and center, face set and strong, eyes warm and welcoming. _Above all else, I’ve got you._ John nodded, chuckled and let the rowdy men inside. All the boys knocked the snow off their boots on the stairs, slid them off in a neat line by the door and carried their drinks into the kitchen. It was evenings like this one that John was amazed he could fit nearly twenty-four bodies in one place. He plugged up his iPod to the surround sound and let some early Radiohead float from the speakers. He needed to be centered for this, needed to be grounded.

He watched as his teammates helped themselves to his glasses, dispersed ice and beer and spoons to stir up the Baileys or the Makers. Calm found him in the midst of their chaos. He pictured Sherlock in the middle of them, fixing a hot toddy or pouring out fifteen year scotch like the classy bastard he was. He would be quiet and polite, a comforting presence. John imagined the handsome brunette tossing him a sideways smirk at Rhys starting with three shots and Egan shaking his head as he nursed two beers all night. John grinned down at the floor, knowing Sherlock would appreciate these men. Not because of their fantastic physical skill, their ability to bust their arses when required, the undefeated title they now carried, but because of who they were to him; to John Watson.

“Cap, you wanna beverage? I can grab you an Imperial from the fridge.” B waved the bottle tauntingly in the air, eyebrow cocked and a devious grin owning his mouth. John smiled and nodded.

“Yeah, B. That’d be fantastic. Thank you.” The boys began to settle, on barstools, against the kitchen wall, on the sofa. Rhys pulled himself up on the kitchen counter. They all sipped their beverage and looked on at John with kind eyes.

John took a big inhale, then a huge swig of his beer. “I missed all of you. You know this. But I think you also all know that’s not the only reason I have you here.” Callum’s eyes didn’t leave John’s. A small smile from a few of his teammates temporarily stamped down the last traces of anxiety swimming through him. “I’m here to tell you all that I met someone.” Rhys grinned like an idiot and slapped the closest victim on the back; it happened to be Egan. A swell of murmurs took over the flat.

“Who is it, Cap?” B asked gently, quietly. John found his eyes and thanked him without a word. _Not who is she._

“Well that’s just it, B. Remember those two or three weeks I was a complete prat before finals?” The entire team nodded far too enthusiastically. “Oy! Alright, yeah. It was rough, I know.” John felt a tiny trace of nausea sweep his stomach. The boys chuckled.

“Shit.” John gave a nervous laugh. Wesley’s brow creased, the confusion evident on his face. “His name’s Sherlock.” John let the bomb drop, explode and the aftermath settle as he knocked back the remainder of his Imperial. His left hand was trembling profusely. He clenched it tightly and found Callum’s eyes.

“Alright.” Callum said quietly. “Tell us about him.”

Panic swarmed John’s head at the suggestion. It was enough to make a confession of this sort to twenty-two men that looked up to you, admired you, and listened to you. It was something else entirely to describe his new interest to them.

“Yeah, Cap. What’s he like? Doesn’t he dance? With Molly? That’s a good lookin’ bloke, even I’ll admit it,” B chipped in. John blew out a relieved exhale, and then laughed.

“Er, if it helps, I’m uh. I’m bisexual?” Wesley offered quietly, and began wringing his hands nervously. “And uh, Sherlock’s gorgeous, mate. Really.” John’s eyes found Wesley’s instantaneously. He had not expected a simultaneous confession. He conveyed his thanks for Wesley’s bravery as best he could.

“ _Wait_. This is the tall, pale, vampy guy from the wedding? Drinks scotch like it’s soda? Quiet, violinist? Took that gorgeous, red-lipped thing home?” Rhys’ expression was hysterical; his jaw dropped and his eyes were huge saucers in their sockets. John couldn’t help but clutch his knees for support at _vampy_. Soon his eyes were wet with mirth. “No, Cap. Seriously. You are seeing him? Damn. DAMN.” Rhys paused for moment. “Think you can get me in with the girl?”

The entire room burst into laughter and just like that, all the tension evaporated. John’s eyes continued to water, with laughter and also with tears of joy and immense gratitude. B tossed him another beer. He screwed off the lid and Egan, quiet through the entire exchange, grinned and lifted his beverage high. “To Cap and his happiness. Cheers.” The team toasted, grinned and drank up.

A few moments passed and John’s face fell serious once more. “Boys. Thank you. You’re my blood. I feel as though I have to be fair. If and when this comes out to the public, it’s likely St Helens will get a lot of heat for having a… damn, a gay captain, bisexual captain, whatever. We’ll be under scrutiny, and you’ll be getting shit for my personal life. If any of you want to resign, or trade, I understand completely, I just feel as though—”

“Honestly, Watson. With all due respect, shut the hell up. We fucking love you, man. You’re our Captain. We’d follow you into a fucking oceanic abyss if you asked us to.” Jasper tipped his hat and winked. “We can take a little heat. Figured you’d know that by now.”

John grinned stupidly. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I should.”

“Well, now you do.” Callum offered with a smile.

“I do.”

“So where is he? Call him up and invite him over.” Rhys waggled his eyebrows and slid down from the counter. John shook his head, a chuckle escaping his mouth in the process.

“He’s rehearsing tonight. He wanted me to handle this in the way I was most comfortable. We’re planning a bit of a get together next week though, so you can meet him then. We’re inviting Irene. The red-lipped thing. Though, I’ll warn you, pretty sure she plays for her own team.”

“Yeah, well. I’d be content to watch.”

Egan punched him solidly in the shoulder. Rhys recoiled, rubbing at his bicep.

“We’ll be there, Cap. Just say when.”

 

-

 

 _How did it go? SH_  
 **As you predicted. Perfectly normal. I’m quite lucky.** _  
You are a man of fantastic character, John. They would be fools to quarrel over something as trivial as who you choose for your partner. SH  
_ **Trivial? You are hardly trivial.  
** _How kind. Does that mean you like me? SH  
_ **Ehh. I suppose so.  
** _Are you going to keep me then? SH_ **  
I don’t see why not.  
Yes, of course I’m keeping you, you idiot. I know you’ve put those deducing skills to work.  
** _Yes, you’re quite besotted. SH  
_ **Shut up.**  
 _It’s all right, John. SH_  
I am, too. SH

 

_-_

 

John rubbed his hand roughly against the back of his neck as he finished his last Imperial for the night. Most of the boys had already caught the tube home, but B lingered a bit longer. He sat comfortably across from John in a worn-in leather wingback chair.

“Cap, have you seen Jane lately?” John’s eyes lifted in interest. He nodded and gave B a small smile.

“Yes, earlier today, actually. Sherlock and I went to visit with the Everetts. She was there.”

B sunk a little farther back in the chair as his legs began to twitch a nervous beat. He wore a quiet expression and John knew he was searching to find a good way to ask something. “Cap, is she ready for a relationship?”

The blonde captain felt his eyebrows travel higher on his forehead. He always expected B to ask the right questions, but this was very straight-to-the-fucking-point, even for B. He scrubbed his face with his free hand, the scratch of stubble lingering against his palm. “I’m not sure I’m the one to answer that, B. She’s been alone five months.”

The fullback nodded in understanding and then dug his fingertips into his tired eyes and sighed.

“But for what it’s worth, she cares about you a great deal. More than she is comfortable with. She is unsure, too.” John paused. B stayed still, ears attentive. “Maybe you should talk with her.”

“John,” B started, “I don’t want to fuck this up.”

John’s eyes widened at the use of his name. B rarely ever used a casual greeting when it came to his captain.

“I know you don’t. She doesn’t either.”

“I don’t want to block the sunlight, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m with you, B. I know what you mean.” John tapped out a rhythm on the condensation covered bottle resting on his knee. “Cook her dinner. Sit her down. Shoot the shit. Knock it all out, hash it all out, let it all out.”

“Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

 

-

 

John slumped against the door of his flat. He hadn’t expected to be so tired after a fairly uneventful day. _Well, sort of uneventful._ He shuffled into the living room and fell face first onto the sofa. A couple of napkins littered with water rings clung to the coffee table. _I’ll need to hoover the floor again, damnit._ He crooked his neck to glance at the clock on the wall.

As if in unison with his thoughts, there was a gentle rap on the door. John groaned, huffed a loud, irritated sigh, and slowly pushed his way up and off the couch. His socked feet barely lifted from the floor as he made his way to the foyer. Sherlock smiled at him from the top step of the stairs. He pushed his way through the door and into John’s space, planting a firm kiss square on a pair of thin, smiling lips.

“Rehearsal went all right, then?” John asked from the crook of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. Sherlock gave him a gentle squeeze around the shoulders and kissed the top of John’s head.

“Yes, productive and clean.” His voice was quiet, as if he hadn’t used it for most of the day. John considered this, and imagined that yes, it was possible Sherlock had not spoken to anyone since he and John left each other earlier that morning. _I can’t even imagine what that would be like._

“Glad to hear it. Want anything? A cuppa? Hot chocolate? Chai?”

Sherlock’s eyes glittered a bit. “Oh, did Jane bring some over?”

“Some of her chai? Yes. I’m assuming you want a cup, then?” John turned away and made for the kitchen as Sherlock stepped into the bedroom to peel off his sweat soaked clothes.

“That would be nice, yes. Thank you. Do you mind if I shower?”

John leaned back to glance down the hall. Sherlock chuckled at his expression.

“Right then, I’ll be out soon.” The hallway door closed and John was left to his own thoughts and the soft sound of water hitting the porcelain tub.

 

-

 

B opened the door to find Jane bundled up in scarves, coats and a knitted cap. Her cheeks were pink and flushed and she was grinning. The tungsten glow of the outdoor light made her blonde hair orange.

“Hi,” she breathed as she stepped into the doorway. She rocked up on her toes and placed a gentle kiss on B’s mouth.

“Hello. Hungry?”

Jane smiled and nodded, taking the steps two at a time. B followed close behind as they ventured into the kitchen.

“B, it smells so good in here!” He glanced up at her peeling off her leather jacket at the dining room table. He pulled the cork from the bottle of pinot on the counter and poured her a glass. She pulled her hair back out of habit and made her way into the kitchen. B passed her the glass; he relished the look of appreciation on her face every time he did anything remotely kind. On one hand, it made things so easy. Jane was grateful for everything. On the other, it was discouraging. _What was the last guy doing, anyway?_

“Thank you so much.” She took a sip and let her head rest against the cabinets. He watched the tension melt from her shoulders. He smiled.

“How was your day? Fourth period any better, or are they still crawling under your skin?” B flipped the chicken breasts in the pan and dug through the cabinets for rosemary. He heard Jane sigh and raised his eyebrows. “That rough, huh?”

“I just don’t know what to do with them, B. I feel like I’ve tried everything. Assigned seats, bookwork, simple projects, very involved projects, free choice, no choice. I’m stuck. I’m stuck, and I hate who I’ve become with them.” She picked at her thumb and stared into her glass.

“Yeah, that’s tough. I know they don’t gel. Have you thought of speaking with them one on one?”

She looked up at him with a puzzled look on her face. Her eyes went back to the floor, to B’s shoes, to her fingers. “I have with a few of my students, but mostly about their behavior. There are so many, B. That would be tough. Thirty-five kids.” Her voice trailed off, but he could tell she was mulling the thought over in her head, trying to find a way to make it work. “I could do them over the course of the week, though. Maybe seven students a class period…” She looked up at him and raised her eyebrows.

“What?” Jane’s brows furrowed and a wrinkle developed at the bridge of her nose.

“You’re a great teacher. Most educators would just accept that their kids are shitheads and leave it at that. I wish I’d had a teacher like you.”

Jane turned and floated into the living room. She stood in front of the shelves of DVDs; something B noticed she did a lot. “Your collection is so different than mine. And larger, too.”

“Yes, well. I love films.”

She rolled her eyes and smirked. “Yeah, I noticed.” B popped a fresh green bean in his mouth and she watched his jaw tighten as he poured the remainder of them into the pot on the stove. “I love that you cook,” she said quietly.

“My foster mother was a terrible cook, so I had a lot of practice.”

Jane nodded idly and found his eyes. “Did she like that you cooked?”

“Yeah, actually. She did. Said I should go to culinary school.” B slid the potatoes into the oven. “By the way, the teacher clothes aren’t bad.”

Jane winked and gave a playful turn. She was wearing a teal, striped sweater and khakis. “Well, thank you.”

He reached out and traced a strand of her hair between his fingers. “Your hair is straight. I like it.”

Jane stood in the middle of the kitchen and stared at him. He blinked and she was lacing her hand around his neck and pressing the other to his chest. B leaned forward and kissed her gently on her mouth, then another on her forehead. “Thank you for noticing,” she said softly.

“Of course. You shouldn’t thank me for being attentive.”

A few minutes passed as she leaned into his chest and he was pressed against the counter. He rubbed her shoulders and pushed her hair from her face. “Jane, may I ask you something?” He felt her pulse flitter at her neck. “Don’t fret, it’s nothing horrible.”

She glanced up at him from the crook of his shoulder and then pulled away. “Ah, that’s reassuring. ‘Nothing horrible.’” Jane offered a feeble smile and nodded. “Go on.”

“How are you feeling about this? About… us.”

Her eyes grew wide on her face and she ducked her chin. Jane tucked a chunk of hair behind her ear.

“Hey,” he murmured, “just talk to me. I just want to talk. I don’t know where you stand or how you’re feeling, and I know the idea of being with someone so soon after everything else that has happened overwhelms you a bit. Nothing to be afraid of.”

She stepped away and took a sip of her wine, a shoulder facing him. A defense mechanism. B returned to the stove and checked the chicken, taste tested the green beans. He slid a loaf of French bread from its brown paper sleeve and took a serrated knife to it. Her voice barely rose above the crunching of the crust being sliced.

“Oh, but there is, B. Because what happens if I like you? If I like you too much? If I scare you off, over-analyze, get too comfortable, disappoint you? What then? Who wants that?”

He arranged the bread onto a plate and added a side of butter. B delivered the snack to the dining room table and fell in behind her, wrapping one arm around her waist and pressing his chin to her shoulder.

“Different man, Jane. Remember that.” He kissed the sliver of skin her v-neck sweater left exposed. “You are going through so many changes. Watching it is incredible. I don’t want to get in the way.”

She rested her chin on her shoulder and leaned further back into B’s chest. “You’re the only one that’s given me room to grow. I apologize for now quite knowing what to do with it just yet.” He kissed her ear through her hair and watched her shiver at the warmth of his breath on her neck.

“Stop apologizing. There is nothing for you to be sorry for.”

She let a dry, humorless laugh fall from her mouth. Only one, not a string like usual. “Bad habits. Trying to figure out what to do with those as well.”

B turned her to face him and tucked the loose strands of blonde behind her right ear. “Tell me what you want, Jane.”

Her blue eyes went wide. They shifted back and forth between his own, revealing confusion, frustration, and fear. Slowly, though, the hard edges faded as she dropped her gaze to his chest. Jane placed her hand across the warm fleece of his pullover and found the steady heartbeat. She closed her eyes; her lips pursed together and then, moments later, quirked into a small smile. “I want this,” she whispered, eyes still closed, hand still splayed across his chest, “I want you.” Jane chuckled softly, pressing her palm against B’s ribcage. She opened her eyes and found his. “Your heart is beating faster.”

B felt his eyebrows jump in surprise. “Well. That’s a first. I was told by What’s Her Face that my heart beat too slowly. Or maybe that I didn’t have one.”

“What’s Her Face is an idiot.” She pressed her mouth against his and savored the aroma of wine tart on his breath.

“One day at a time?” he murmured against her lips.

“One day at a time.”

 

-

 

“May I go ahead and stuff the chicken?” Sherlock called from the kitchen. He hated having to yell over the obnoxious whirring of the vacuum. John shut the power off.

“I’m sorry?”

“I asked if I can stuff the chicken.”

John nodded and flicked the machine back on.

Sherlock leaned against the counter and watched John. They had been staying with one another nearly every night since the Underground. Before this freakish incident, _what else would you call someone being attracted to me?_ , Sherlock had believed it reckless and foolish to seek out a companion. He had never wished to share a bed, share a kettle, share a shower, cook with someone, fold towels with someone, kiss someone, be intimate with someone. He had never imagined being domestic, being tamed, having a routine… John did a small spin to untangle the cord and Sherlock smiled to himself. Nor did he ever believe someone else could put him at ease rather than on edge. Sherlock turned back to the raw chicken on the counter and began to stuff in the rest of the ingredients.

 

-

 

Sherlock opened the door and was greeted by a kiss from Jane and Molly. Callum gave him a firm shake and a confident smile. They hung their coats and moved toward the sound of company in the living room. Irene sat perched on the edge of John’s sofa, sporting a forest green dress and a glass of brandy. Rhys was chatting her up, hopelessly, and Egan and Violet were helping John and B with the refreshments in the kitchen. B turned to grab some ice from the freezer and smiled at Jane. She grinned back and walked up to Irene, reintroduced herself and joined Rhys on the couch. Another ring of the doorbell sounded through the small flat and Molly offered to answer.

The space quickly filled up with John and Sherlock’s favorite people. Music sat in the quiet spaces between conversations and laughter. Molly and Jane danced briefly on the living room rug while John and Sherlock sorted out the chicken and stuffed mushrooms. Callum and Wesley chatted about John’s CD collection, and how 1995 it was. The liquor stash steadily depleted, along with the tagalong sixers in the cooler on the floor.

John stood next to Sherlock in the kitchen, surveying the amazing moments in life they had managed to pick up and keep with them. Sherlock glanced down at him, his eyes warm and mellow. They delivered dinner to the table and pulled out the chairs for their guests.

 

-

 

Jane kissed them both goodbye, B waiting patiently on a lower step. “Thank you both, so much, for having us tonight. Sherlock, that dinner was to die for.”

“Oy! He didn’t do it alone, you know,” John mumbled. Sherlock gave a lazy laugh.

“Of course he didn’t, Cap. But the point is that he could have,” B piped up. Jane gave him a teasing swat on his backside and pushed him down the next step.

“What he means to say is that we love you both. I love you both,” Jane offered from the bottom stair. B laced his fingers between hers and she waved with her free hand. Sherlock draped his arm around John’s shoulder and returned the gesture before they headed inside.

“I’d say that was a success,” John said as he locked the deadbolt. He wandered back into the living room and planted himself in his chair, propping his feet up on the coffee table. He sighed, licked his lips, and propped an elbow on the armrest, sinking his chin into his palm. John felt Sherlock round the chair and kiss the top of his head.

“I agree,” he murmured as his arms snaked around John’s shoulders. John could feel Sherlock’s mouth at the nape of his neck. John hummed delightedly as Sherlock pressed his lips softly to his skin. “You were perfect tonight,” the brunette rumbled on, “gorgeous and sharp and graceful.” He bit at John’s collar, thumbed the sensitive skin behind his ear. “All I could think about is the last person walking out the door, so I could do this…” John watched as Sherlock started at the buttons of his shirt. He drew a sharp inhale as the cold hands found his chest underneath the cotton. Sherlock bit at the skin of his shoulder and sank to the the floor between John’s knees. John watched him through lidded eyes as Sherlock kissed his khaki covered legs. John’s shirt was spread open; the kisses trailed from his knee up his thigh, past his belt buckle until Sherlock’s nose was pressed into the warmth of John’s flesh, his breath fluctuating in short bursts across flexing muscle. John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and gasped at the large hand now palming him through his trousers. He murmured something indecipherable and Sherlock smirked, sitting back on his heels and tracing John’s erection with his teeth. John let out a husky laugh.

Sherlock made quick work of the button and zipper; he gently tugged at the waistband of his trousers. John arched his hips up as Sherlock slid his clothes down past his knees. He closed his eyes and kissed the sharp lines dipping along John’s hips. His hands found the soft skin on the inside of John’s thighs.

“Oh, Sherlock. God,” John whispered. His voice was crackly and soft like it sounded in the morning. Sherlock ran his tongue up John’s length. He gasped.

“John,” Sherlock prompted, his voice rougher even to his own ears, “tell me what you want.”

John’s eyes flittered open, pupils darker and wider. “You, Sherlock. God, I want you.” Sherlock leaned over him, pressing his chest against John’s, and kissed him. Only their lips moved at first. Soft, tender; Sherlock was in a teasing mood. He pulled away and smirked, wrapping those lithe fingers around John and giving him a gentle pull. John sank into the chair and relaxed into Sherlock’s touch. “Jesus, yes. Just like that. How do you already know how to touch me?” Sherlock preened at John’s praise and settled down comfortably on his knees. He gave his wrist a tiny twist and John pushed up into his fist. Sherlock let a quiet sound escape his mouth at that, and his other hand fell between his own legs, rubbing firmly at his own hard on.

He licked his lips and then kissed the tender underneath of John’s glans. His tongue swirled there, teasing, and John began to pant. “Fuck, yes. Sherlock…” John’s hand was tangled in Sherlock’s hair, tightening into a gentle fist as Sherlock took John’s cock into his mouth. He moaned at the taste of John’s pre-ejaculate warm and tart on his tongue. “Your mouth,” John managed, “you are so fucking good with that gorgeous mouth.” Sherlock pushed farther forward, taking more of John. He worked slowly, running his tongue under the shaft, kissing and licking the swollen head, murmuring and letting words of praise slip from his mouth as he kissed across John’s thighs before swallowing him whole again. Sherlock could feel the tensing of John’s muscles in his legs, the short, broken bursts of breath leaving his nose. “Sherlock, fucking Christ. I’m nearly there. So fucking good to me.” He caressed the tight nub of flesh on John’s left pectoral, and his other hand slipped between John’s legs. John’s back arched in the chair as he pushed into the heat of Sherlock’s mouth. “Fuck, yeah. I’m there, Sher… I’m,” John tried to give Sherlock’s jaw a gentle push away, but he sank down until his nose was touching flesh. John gasped and stilled, his muscles flexing and relaxing, one hand clutching Sherlock’s shoulder, the other tangled in his hair. “Jesus.” The second syllable was long and drawn out. A short chuckle left John’s mouth at the sight of Sherlock licking his lips. “You’re fucking incredible.”

John slid lazily from the chair into the floor, tossing his shirt onto the sofa. He reached for Sherlock’s pants and quickly divested him of his clothing. John sat on his knees, licking into Sherlock’s mouth and shivering at the taste of himself on his tongue. Then he got on his back, urging Sherlock to crawl on top of him, clawing at his thighs, the taut muscles of his arse, the whipcord muscle of his back. “Fucking christ, you are gorgeous. Do you know that?” He slid down so that Sherlock was straddling his shoulders, and began to kiss Sherlock’s cock. They started as soft, ghosting touches, sweet and tender and easy, but soon escalated into messy, wet, and tongue infused. John licked the beading liquid from the slit of Sherlock’s swollen cock, his hands now digging firmly into Sherlock’s thighs, his moans nearly overshadowing the whimpers leaving Sherlock’s lips.

Finally, Sherlock gave an involuntary plunge into John’s mouth, and John moaned, taking one hand to Sherlock’s back and applying pressure. “Yes, Sherlock. Please.” Sherlock’s eyes opened to reveal nearly solid black circles. John bit at his lip as Sherlock pressed the head of his cock against his mouth. “Jesus, yes, just like that.” His hips gave a slow rock forward, slipping into the warmth of John’s mouth, and back out again. Sherlock tilted his head up and back and pressed both his palms to the floor. A growl rumbled from his throat as he continued to rock into John’s mouth and pull himself nearly all the way out. John clawed at Sherlock’s back and hummed in delight as Sherlock set a steady rhythm. As his movements became more erratic, John noticed Sherlock sinking his teeth into his bicep to muffle his sounds. He held Sherlock’s hips steady, but only for a moment. “I want to fucking hear you.” He licked tauntingly at Sherlock’s length and released his hips. “Are we clear?” Sherlock’s eyes went wide at the command in John’s voice, and nodded. John took Sherlock into his mouth and pulled Sherlock’s hips forward again. Sherlock shifted one hand from the floor and fisted a handful of John’s hair in it instead. John nodded and gasped. Sherlock was pistoning his hips at a near frantic rhythm, all the muscles in his body tensing. He pulled out of John’s mouth and wrapped his other hand around his cock. He took two deep breaths through his nose. John clawed down his chest and kissed the inside of Sherlock’s wrist. “Yes. Come for me. Please, Sherlock.” Sherlock’s hand gave three swift pulls.

“Oh, John. Shit. _Yes_.” The pale, gorgeous topography of Sherlock’s body was pulled taut. John growled deep in his throat at the sight of Sherlock’s face twisted up in pleasure; his eyebrows were pitched high in the middle of his brow, mouth slack and open, and his chest was swelling with his frantic breathing.

“So fucking gorgeous,” John whispered as he skimmed his fingers over Sherlock’s now trembling thighs. Sherlock huffed a small and shaky laugh. He shimmied down until he was straddling John’s hips, and leaned forward and gave John a slow and sated kiss. He dropped his forehead against John’s and shared air until they were both back at a decent resting heart rate. Sherlock slowly stood and pulled John up with him. They stared at each other, only clad in socks, and then laughed.

“Gorgeous, indeed,” Sherlock murmured. He combed his fingers through John’s mussed hair and gave him a gentle push towards the loo. “You’re filth, John Watson. That mouth of yours will be the death of me.”

John turned and winked from the bathroom door.

 

 


	14. Avow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a·vow  
> əˈvou/  
> verb  
> assert or confess openly.  
> "he avowed that he had voted Republican in every election"  
> synonyms: assert, declare, state, maintain, swear, affirm, vow
> 
> It hasn't been a month and a half, but it's been damn near close. I struggled with this chapter. I ventured from and wandered back to my original plans for this content, and just ended up rolling with it. Be honest, tell me what you think. 
> 
> I love John Watson, you guys. I hope you know this by now. I also hope you still love me after you read. Don't worry. It all gets better. Remember: it's an important plot point and development of characters is vital. 
> 
> Go, read, weep, hate me, be a shoulder for John Watson to lean on.  
> XoX, hamishh

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Would you mind making another?”

Sherlock stood in the living room of John’s flat, towel wrapped around his waist. Water was beading from his hair down his chest and he felt his skin break out in gooseflesh. _Why is it so cold?_ John was standing by the counter staring at the kettle as it heated.

  
“John?”

  
He didn’t respond, physically or verbally. Sherlock continued to watch him, a deep crease forming between his brows. At least three minutes had passed when the kettle finally began to shriek. Even then, John’s reaction was delayed, and it was as if he had been scared straight out of his skin. Almost like he had forgotten the kettle was on at all…

  
“John?”

  
Finally, he turned to face Sherlock, and something flinched inside Sherlock’s chest. As the kettle hovered over the cup, Sherlock noticed that it was getting dangerously full.  
“You probably ought to stop pouring now.”

  
“Mm?” The just-boiled water overflowed from the rim of the moose mug and gathered next to it on the counter. Sherlock walked into the kitchen and took the kettle from John’s hand, returning it to its eye. Immediately it whistled again. John hadn’t turned it off. Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck and narrowed his eyes.

  
“What’s the matter with you?”

  
John stared through him. Dark marks haunted the undersides of his eyes, and they were completely unresponsive. Sherlock reached out to trace the line of John’s jaw tenderly. John blinked once, twice, and his eyes shifted from dull back to their usual attentiveness. Sherlock’s eyebrows pitched up in confusion.

  
“Good morning.” John turned away and made for the sugar. As he stirred in two spoonfuls, he looked back to Sherlock and smiled. “Would you like a cuppa?”

  
Sherlock stood in the kitchen, feet freezing on the tiled floor. “Yes, that would be good,” he answered hesitantly. John extended the cup to him before leaning in and planting a soft kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. “Thank you, John.”

  
The blonde passed him on the way to the hall without looking at him and nodded. “Yeah.”

  
The heat passed through the ceramic and burned into his fingers.

 

  
-

  
Molly watched as Sherlock struggled through his seventh Battement en Rond. They had scheduled rehearsal together, but now she felt tempted to walk out of the theater and let him have the stage.

  
She knew these days. They were cruel and bitter; the tiniest thing could set one in motion: waking up late, foul weather, an argument with a significant other, another bill she couldn’t pay. Normally, she could talk herself out of it. Most days that started poorly got better the minute her feet hit the stage. But if it wasn’t “most days,” the frustration mounted and echoed in every muscle, every thought, every movement, and magnified that thought. It no longer felt like one tiny thing, but a million gargantuan, impossible threats. Those sorts of days were a nightmare; she had never witnessed Sherlock having one.

  
“Damnit!” he blustered as he bit the stage for the ninth time. His hip and thigh would be black for a week. He sat in a tangle of limbs as his chest heaved.

  
“Sherlock, we can reschedule.”

  
“No. I took time from your day. We will do this. I will make this work.” His voice was strung tight like guitar strings that hadn’t had enough time to stretch before being played.

  
“It’s okay. This is my job. We can come back tomorrow, or Wednesday, or next week. We have time.”

  
He fisted his hair, finally allowing the frustration to seize him. “This is absurd. I can always land my en Rond. Always.”

  
Molly climbed up onto the stage and sat next time him. “I’m here to listen, if you need someone to talk at.” She gingerly rested a hand on his shoulder. He leaned into her touch.  
“I’m off today. I apologize, Molly. I did not intend to waste your time.” Molly pushed the damp hair from his forehead and gave him a small smile.

  
“You ridiculous man. You are never a waste of my time. Take the day, yeah? Read something, hole up in a coffeehouse somewhere, order something sweet. You need it.”

  
He squeezed her hand where it rested on his knee. “Yeah. I might start with a bath.”

  
“Sounds perfect,” she agreed. She stood and offered her hand. Molly pulled him to his feet and clutched his fingers tightly. “This too shall pass.”

  
Sherlock placed a tender kiss to her forehead. “I hope so.”

 

 

  
-

  
 _Hey boy, hey._  
 _How are things going?_  
Missing you. Feels like forever since we last chatted. What’s new?  
Hi… Drinking an orange soda. Thinking of you.  
Kirsten finally completed her Supernatural box and vials. They turned out gorgeous! Come visit?  
 _Stop being a prat and respond to my texts! I know Sherlock is great and all, but I was your friend fiiiiirst!_  
 _Am I missing something? Has practice started back?_  
 _John Watson. Where the fuck are you?!_

 

 

  
-

  
“Have you heard from John?” Sherlock was wrapping his ankle after a particularly nasty rehearsal.

  
Molly tilted her head in surprise. “You haven’t?”

  
“Well, no, I just assumed he was preoccupied. Have the men returned to practice?”

  
Molly studied Sherlock’s face, her eyes sharp and narrowed. “That’s what’s wrong.” It wasn’t a question. Sherlock stared up at her from the floor, and then signed as he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. Molly felt like an idiot. “Sherlock! Why didn’t you say something?”

  
Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, his eyebrows rocketing near his hairline. “What was I to say?! John hasn’t spoken to me in nearly twelve days, pity me?”

  
Molly’s brown eyes went as huge as saucers. “Twelve days? You haven’t talked to John in twelve days?”

  
Sherlock was on his feet shoving things into his bag. His voice came out twisted and bitter. “That is what I said, Molly. Do keep up.”

  
Silence filled the space between them as she chewed at her lower lip, her eyebrows pulled into a tight and rather intimidating furrow. As Sherlock turned to her, she cocked one in defiance. “You should reassess that tone. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not John. I’m only trying to clarify. Care to try that again?”

  
Sherlock sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face, which, now that Molly was paying closer attention, seemed gaunt and a bit discolored. His eyes were a dull, stormy gray. “I apologize, Molly,” he started quietly, “I’m not familiar with such frustration and confusion. It was not just of me to expel those things on you.”

  
“Damn right, it wasn’t,” she retorted. A sad, tiny smile hit the right corner of her lips. “You’re forgiven. I think you should come with me,” she trailed as she slung her bag over her shoulder and headed for the alleyway exit.

 

 

  
-

  
Molly extracted the keys from her purse and wiggled one into the lock. She turned to Sherlock and gave him a look. It was one he hadn’t seen on her: something fragile, gentle, pleading. They stepped inside and Callum was lounging on the sofa.

  
“Callum.”

  
He glanced up faster than lightening finding the ground and peered into her face. “Mols? What’s the matter?” He jerked his eyes to Sherlock, narrowed them, and then went back to her. “Baby?”

  
“When’s the last time you spoke to John?”

  
Callum’s eyes widened. “Maybe a week ago. Why? What’s happened?”

  
“I think we ought to lend Sherlock the spare," Molly whispered.

 

 

  
-

  
Sherlock’s knuckles hovered over the solid wood of John’s door. _Should I knock? Should I just walk in?_ Molly and Callum had exchanged a quiet, wordless conversation, one they had so generously excluded Sherlock from, and told him to come here. His stomach twisted in discomfort. Sherlock had no idea what to expect. He dropped his hand, did a small turn on the top step and growled in frustration. Both his hands grappled with his messy head of hair. He reached for the door instead, checking to see if he could open it without unlocking it, because somehow, in his mind, that seemed less invasive. _Right, because just walking into someone’s flat is perfectly acceptable._ The doorknob gave and Sherlock nearly stumbled into the foyer.

  
The apartment was frigid. Sherlock gathered if it had been ten degrees cooler and the humidity level higher, he would be able to see his own breath. He stopped at the thermostat in the hall and bumped it up.

  
“John?” he called out gently. Normally his intuition was in tune enough to deduce when something horribly wrong had already happened, and at the moment, he couldn’t detect any trace of that familiar pull in his stomach. There was no sound in the flat at all; Sherlock had started to wonder if he was alone when he rounded the corner to the sitting room.

  
All he could see was the top of John’s head. He sat in the wingback leather seat, glass in his hand. An amber liquid threatened to spill from the side as the glass sat haphazardly on the arm of the chair, fingers barely gripped around it. John’s typically sandy blonde hair was dark from lack of washing, mashed this way and that against his skull. Sherlock felt a tight pull in his chest. _What on earth…_

  
 _John? An alcoholic?_ Sherlock rolled this thought around in his head and could not, no matter where he tried, find a place to make it fit. It didn’t make sense. He rested his hand on the top of the chair as he crouched down to face John.

  
He looked as if he hadn’t slept ten of the twelve days they hadn’t spoken. Sherlock felt guilt puncture his lungs. _Damnit, I should have come sooner._ John’s eyes were open, but glossy and unresponsive. His breath left his nose in small puffs and his lips were cool in color. He didn’t even twitch when Sherlock softly called his name. He could smell the alcohol on John’s skin. Sherlock stood and plucked the glass from John’s hands. That earned him a tiny stir, a minute shift of his eyes, but nothing more. He returned to the kitchen where he found an array of empty bottles scattered about the counter, and one broken in large shards on the floor. He pulled a clean glass from the cabinet and filled it with water at room temperature before returning it to John’s hand. Sherlock snagged the large, knitted blanket from the sofa and draped it over John’s lap before he headed to the bedroom. He turned his attention to the chest of drawers, shuffling through the socks and underwear to find him clean garments, then a pair of flannel pajamas and a long sleeved, crew neck shirt. He tucked the items under his arm and made for the bathroom at the end of the hall. As he ran the water and pulled back the shower curtain, he thought of John sitting in his lap on the loo, running his fingers through Sherlock’s tangled hair. A towel was located under the sink, and Sherlock left everything on the porcelain lid of the toilet. The door was shut in hopes of warming the tiny space up.

  
He wandered back into the sitting room and sat cross legged in front of John. Sherlock noted the amount of water left in the glass; John had already taken a few sips. He tenderly pulled a sock off John’s foot began to rub his thumbs into the arch. He applied pressure to the icy extremity in an attempt to get his blood circulating properly again. John mumbled incoherently, his head falling back to rest against the back of the chair. That was a good sign. Sherlock removed the other sock, gave his left foot a quick rub, and then took the glass and placed it on the coffee table. He crawled up onto his knees between John’s thighs and caressed his kneecaps gently with his thumbs.

  
“John,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

  
John blinked, tilted his head, good god, that looks dangerous, and gave a tiny, sad smile.  
“Sh’lock.” John’s voice was tight and dry, barely a crackle in the silence.

  
“Hello, John.” Sherlock pressed a small kiss to John’s temple. “Care to take a bath with me?”

  
He nodded lazily and sat up a bit straighter. Sherlock extended his hand and pulled John to his feet, where he swayed a bit until finding a shaky center. He laced an arm around John’s thick waist and helped him to the bathroom.

  
Sherlock tried to ignore the nagging curiosity that was yanking unashamedly at his brain stem. _What the hell is this? Who is this?_ He undressed quickly and efficiently; nothing about this scenario was sexy or arousing. In fact, it stamped out all physical impulses, even the natural ones. “Lift,” Sherlock demanded, and John, wobbly and unstable, barely raised his arms. Sherlock gave his elbows a stronger push upwards and tugged his jumper up over his head and dropped it in the floor. “Turn around,” the commanding continued. He unbuttoned John’s trousers and pulled everything off and down in one fell swoop. John stood, naked and drunk, in his tiny bathroom. Sherlock resisted the urge to yell, cry, caress and shake. This entire situation was just insane and illogical. “Come on now, John. Me first, then you after.” Sherlock slid into the hot water and cut the tap, then reached out his hands. “Slowly, you’re a bit unsteady,” he muttered. John slipped one foot into the tub, followed by the other. Sherlock gripped John under his arms and helped him ease into a sit position, his back to Sherlock’s chest. “That’s it. Lean back, I’ve got you. Just relax.” _Can’t ask questions, not now, not yet._

  
They sat that way, John’s spine pressing into Sherlock’s ribcage, for a while. The silence was heavier than usual, but Sherlock knew conversation would be pointless, fruitless, forgotten. He heaved a sigh and then ran his damp fingers through John’s greasy hair. “Has it actually been twelve days since you last bathed?” John’s chest did a funny movement and a tiny chuckle danced out of his mouth. A small smirk pulled at the edge of Sherlock’s lips. “I guess this is a test run for parenting. Lean your head back.” Sherlock doused a thick body sponge in water and attempted to soak John’s hair with it. After two or three full sponges worth, it was finally wet enough to wash. As he swirled his fingers in circles around John’s scalp, he watched as John’s toes wiggled against the metal faucet. John spread them wide apart, curled them under, and then wide apart again.

  
“You should have called me, John. Whatever it was, I could have helped,” Sherlock heard himself whispering. This conversation may disappear into drunkenness forever, but he realized he needed this, even if John wouldn’t be able to recall it. “You idiot. What on earth could have possessed you to do this to yourself?” He started rinsing the suds down John’s back as he put his mind to work, piecing together the small bits of information he had. His hands stopped moving as the realization dawned on him. “Oh. _OH_.” _Of course. Idiot. It’s an anniversary._

  
A tiny word fell from John’s mouth, barely more than a whisper. “Harry.”

  
Something writhed and burned hot and unkind inside Sherlock’s stomach. “Who is Harry, John?”

  
Silence found them again and Sherlock went on to wash the evidence from John’s skin.

 

 

  
-

  
John woke to his skull pounding. His hands immediately went to his temples. _I have to pee._ He pulled his covers back, _how the hell did I make it to bed? Did I make it to bed?,_ and turned his body to a sit position. He ducked his head between his knees as it throbbed mercilessly. The soft flannel of his pants felt good against his ears. _I did not put on pyjamas_. He looked up to find two parecetamol and a glass of water sitting on the bedside table. John stood, not trusting the medication as he knew he had been far too gone to even consider doing such a thing, and wobbled to the door. _Oy. I’m still completely arsed._ He wandered out into the hallway, using the walls to support him, and startled at the voice following him from the sitting room.

  
“Aren’t you looking dishy.” John turned as quickly as he could, considering, as his eyebrows shot up. He blinked several times, his eyes clearly struggling to focus.

  
“Sherlock? Bloody – I’m far more drunk than I thought.” Sherlock chuckled at that, and stood from the sofa. He had been reading the paper. “What time is it?” John asked quietly.

  
“Just a few minutes past midnight. How are you feeling?” He approached John and caressed the hollow of his cheek. “Good to hear you talking.”

  
John groaned. “Damn. I’ll have the loo.”

  
When he came back, Sherlock was in the kitchen messing about with the kettle. “Cuppa?”

  
“No, no thanks.” John sat in his wingback chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was still very much inebriated. He looked over to Sherlock. “Why did you come?” John’s face twisted into something serious. He could feel the heat of embarrassment rising fast into his cheeks and ears. He had ignored Sherlock intentionally. Sherlock wasn’t supposed to see him this way.

  
Sherlock looked affronted. His mouth fell into a small O and then closed again. “I’m – I’m sorry, I just hadn’t heard from you. I was worried. I’d called and texted…”

  
“Did you consider for a moment perhaps there was reason for that?” John’s voice was darker, and thick. Self-loathing was curling hot inside his muscles.

  
“Yes, of course I thought there was a reason for it, John. One that was meant to deter me from seeing you in a condition you did not wish to be seen in. What you need to realize, and quickly, is that I am your ally, not your enemy. I am here to help you, not torment, judge, or criticize you.” Sherlock was brisk and sharp in delivery, no longer stammering or self-conscious. John nodded once in response, his lips pursed together in a thin line.

  
“Right, then.”

  
Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. John let loose a tiny giggle. Sherlock’s grey eyes were on his instantly, wide and filled with hurt. “Is this funny to you? Do you find this amusing?” John could see everything Sherlock was biting back: _do you know how you looked, John? Do you know how much you frightened me? Frustrated me? Infuriated me? Worried me? What in the hell were you thinking? Did I interfere with a death wish?_ But, stronger than all of those, _don’t you trust me?_

  
“No, I’m sorry. You’re quite right. It isn’t funny at all,” John muttered. Sherlock had wedged his hips in the corner of the counter, both hands wrapped defensively around his cup. John stood and made his way back to the bedroom. Sherlock did not follow him.

 

 

  
-

  
He slipped under the covers and watched the rise and fall of John’s chest. He wrapped his arm around John’s middle, scooting a bit closer to him under the covers. Sherlock kissed John’s temple, the sleep-mussed hair above his forehead, his eyebrow, the shell of John’s ear. John stirred, curling his fingers around Sherlock’s arm. Slowly, his eyes blinked open, nearly opalescent from the lamplight pouring in the window. “Hi,” he whispered, his voice husky from sleep.

  
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock offered. He wrapped his arm tighter around John and nestled his head in the crook of John’s shoulder.

  
“What on earth for? I’m the one that tripped off the face of the planet in a drunken stupor and didn’t even warn you.”

  
“For making you feel ashamed or embarrassed. For interfering with your grieving process. For expecting you to share everything with me when I have no right to know any of it.” Sherlock felt John press his lips against the top of his head.

  
“Don’t apologize for caring about me, Sherlock. I’m sorry I twisted that up and made it seem nasty. It isn’t. It wasn’t.” John’s hand was now out and around Sherlock’s shoulder, carding through his hair. Quiet found them; it didn’t press this time. It was gentle and welcome. Sherlock let his fingers trail along John’s elbow, the pale light falling in stripes across his shirtsleeve.

  
“Tell me about them?” he asked, his voice laced with curiosity. He tugged at the cuff of the cotton crew shirt.

  
“All of them?” John inquired with a short laugh. “That could take a while.”

  
“All of them.”

  
“Alright. Which one first?”

  
Sherlock wriggled up in bed and tugged the chain to the lamp. John hissed and covered his eyes. “Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled. John blinked, smiled, and rested his hands in his lap. “Let’s go with the obvious first. Queen and Country?”

  
John pulled his shirt up and over his head, then he started.

  
"'Fraid that one is pretty obvious," he chuckled, "I love England." Sherlock nodded curtly, his lips drawn in a mildly disapproving sneer. "What's that face, then?" John huffed.

  
"Dull."

  
John rolled his eyes and gestured to his arm. "Well go on, pick one you find more interesting."

  
"The lion. It's only a line drawing, not fully rendered. Also, no color. Care to explain?"

  
John rubbed his thumb affectionately across the lion that covered the entirety of his bicep and shoulder. A small smile claimed his mouth. "First one. Was scared shitless, honestly. I got it as a reminder to be brave. We were enduring a lot, my family and me. And, well..." he trailed.

  
"Well, what?" Sherlock gently pressed. John smiled sheepishly.

  
"Always thought if I got sorted, I'd be a Gryffindor."

  
Sherlock stared at him. "A what?"

  
John's mouth dropped in disbelief. "A Gryffindor? You know, the Gryffindor House, the home of the brave and courageous? Lions and heroes and Hogwarts, oh my?" Sherlock tilted his head and gave a small shake. "Huh. Okay, well. Finally something I can educate you on."

  
"Well... What is it?"

  
"Harry Potter. He's a wizard and attends a school called Hogwarts and he and his two best mates are Gryffindors. Christ, Sherlock, our very own J.K. Rowling wrote it. Voldemort, 'Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, you don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort', vanishing cabinets, wingardium leviosa? No? No bells?"

  
Sherlock laughed and shook his head in a resounding no.

  
"Alright, well this is embarrassing. Moving on."

  
Sherlock grinned and ran his fingertips across the thick gothic text: _ex terra lucem_. "Ah. Latin for 'light from the ground.' It's the motto for St Helens. Got it the night I signed on."

  
Sherlock's hand wandered down the the stark silhouette of bristly pines circling his forearm. The tattoo ended in a solid, black band just below his watch line, and within the solid ink, "still I rise" stood out in his flesh tone. "Interesting way to incorporate text. Haven't seen the negative space utilized this way before."

  
"I've discovered I'm a huge fan of text tattoos. I didn't want them all to look the same, so I had to get crafty eventually. That one's fairly new. The final piece to the sleeve."

  
Sherlock rolled John's arm over to see the soft inside of his forearm. The tattoos blended together cleanly and ended in sharp edges. "Is there a theme to it?"

  
John tilted his chin up in thought. "No, I don't believe so. Like you've said before, I use them more to document the various places I have been in my life. I guess that could be considered a theme?" Sherlock nodded. They moved to the other arm.

  
"These are a bit more... Intertwined."

  
"Yeah. I did the right arm first. Didn't really plan it out or try to make it cohesive. Just happened. I wanted these to interlace more, I guess. I dunno." Sherlock peered into John's face with knit brows. After a few moments of a tense stare, Sherlock turned his eyes back to the ink.

  
"Alright. Start from the top." Sherlock directed. He sat up straighter on the bed and crossed his legs Indian style, turning to face John completely.

  
"Right. Okay. Well this is a Sig Sauer P226," John explained as he turned his shoulder to Sherlock. "My father was retired military. I learned guns early, and it is my lady of choice. Firing out of it, if you will, is the pulsar map of the USS Enterprise."

  
Sherlock grinned. "Ah. That reference I do know, quite well." Sherlock paused a moment, and then hummed an affirmative noise.  
"What?" John inquired.

  
"Did you get these after he passed?"

  
"Yeah," John muttered. "Odd, how sentimental you can become when someone you're supposed to love dies. You try desperately to portray them as something good, even when they weren't." Sherlock remained quiet, allowing John to continue if he wished. He didn't.

  
"These are obviously the lunar phases. My astrological sign is Cancer, and my ruling planet is the moon." John paused for a moment, and Sherlock watched as his mouth curled into a shrewd smile. "My sister was huge into astrology. She always said I was so true to my sign. She and I each got something related to our ruling planet when she turned eighteen." John barely skipped a beat before he moved onto the next one: "I know you recognize this," he taunted. "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few -"

  
"Or the one," Sherlock finished.

  
John nodded. "I was working towards a degree in medicine when I was in uni. Wanted to be a surgeon. Things happened the year of graduation, though. Instead of beginning my internship, I checked my mother into rehab and picked up two jobs to pay my sister's way through school. Neither of my parents had put a single pound away for her. My mother had long since spent anything our dad had left her." John stole a cautious glance at Sherlock. "I'm sorry. The last thing I want is to spill my entire sob story. I'm a bit dramatic at times, I should've warned."

  
Sherlock watched as John chewed on his lip in uncertainty. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to the new moon that sat atop the curve of his tricep.

  
"I want to know anything you are willing to share. Please, do not apologize. This is your life. Why should you be sorry for it?" John's eyes widened, and turned away.  
"God, when I talk about these out loud, it's a bit embarrassing. This is Gallifreyan, the language of-"

  
"The Timelords, yeah."

  
John's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You're a Whovian?"

  
Sherlock laughed and the sound echoed through the flat. "Is that what they're called? I used to watch a great deal of the Doctor, yes. I'm not sure I'd deem myself a Whovian, though."

  
John's mouth pulled up at the right corner. "Huh. Well it's meant to stand for 'companion.'"

  
Sherlock traced the intersecting circles and lines on John's arm. "It's lovely. The artist pulled such clean lines. It couldn't have been easy."

  
"Vivian's good. Very good."

  
"Has she done all your ink?" He glanced back at the right sleeve in a newfound admiration. He had thought they had been an assortment of artists, each tattoo requiring a different skill set.

  
"Yes. Every single one."

  
"Damn good," Sherlock murmured.

  
"That's an understatement," John chuckled as he spoke. "Shall I finish up?"

  
"Yes, please. I'm eager to hear about the others."

  
John pointed to a tiny cursive word falling in next to the outer rim of the Gallifreyan. "Obliviate. It's a spell," John whispered. "It can erase one's existence from someone's memory entirely." Sherlock thumbed the tiny, hidden word lovingly.

  
"Your sister."

  
John scrubbed his hand over his face and sighed. His eyes had taken on a steely grey. "Yeah. Yes. Harriet."

  
Sherlock felt like he had been hit with an anvil. "Harry for short."

  
"Mmm," John murmured.

  
Sherlock was torn between kissing John senseless and pressing him forward. He was flooded with the need to show John how loved he is now, that his life at present could be beautiful if he would allow it. He bit back the pungent desire to ask him what Harry had been like and decided to move on. Instead, he tapped gently at a collection of blue shapes on his left forearm. They reminded him of abstracted waves. Within them was orange text: make yourself.

  
"Favorite Incubus album. Angry enough, sad enough, pressing enough. Listened to it for months after Harry died. That tattoo documents my life at its most pathetic."

  
Sherlock' brows furrowed together. "Pathetic?" His tone was incredulous.

  
"I fucked so many things up."

  
"Your sister died, John. You shouldn't blame yourself for that."

  
John's eyes hardened instantly. A venomous laugh left his throat. It was a foreign and unwelcome sound. Sherlock reminded himself to put on a thicker skin. This wasn't about him, and it was not a good time to make it so. He pressed his thumb to the bend of John's elbow, where the last tattoo lay nearly hidden. It simply said "here," comma included. "Tell me about this one, then." It seemed harmless enough.

  
John stood from the bed and walked wordlessly into the kitchen. Sherlock sat motionless as the duvet where John sat whispered softly; the feathers shifted and new air filled the space. Sherlock crawled from the comforter and moved into the kitchen. John had found a clean tumbler and was in the midst of opening a new bottle of Jameson. Sherlock crossed the room in seconds and rested his hand gently on John's.

  
"Don't touch me." John muttered under his breath, his words bitter and cold. Sherlock squared his shoulders.

  
"What does it mean?" He wrapped his fingers around John's wrist.

  
"I said don't. touch. me," John growled.

  
"I can't help you unless you explain, John."

  
"I don't need your fucking help. You don't know what I've been through."

  
"Which is why I'm asking. John, please -"

  
John yanked his wrist from Sherlock's grip. "Do you really want to know, Sherlock? I don't think you do. You have no idea what this feels like. " John's brows were knit together; the expression on his face was desperate and pained. "Please, god, I am begging you, leave. If you care about me at all, leave. Right fucking now."

  
Sherlock felt anger rise like bile at the back of his throat. _Breathe. This is what he is trying to do. He is trying to save you. Trying to help you. He doesn't want to hurt you. He doesn't want to be seen._

  
"If you don't tell me what it means, I will leave. And I will not come back." Sherlock placed his hand back at John's wrist, twisting it gently to reveal the tiny word on his pale, veined forearm.

  
"How dare you threaten me." John whispered.

  
"Do not push me away, John. I care for you. How blind are you?"

  
"How blind are _YOU_?!" John bellowed, tears moving fast down his face. "You are stupid, Sherlock Holmes, to care about me. Have you not yet deduced it?" he snarled. "I do nothing but leave a trail of destruction. Run, while you can. Get away from me." He sobbed and moved his hands to his face, his cries both muffled and amplified. Sherlock pulled John into his arms and held him to his chest.

  
"I killed her, Sherlock. I fucking killed her," he blurted into Sherlock's chest, hands now clinging desperately to the thin layer of cotton. "She's gone because of me," he whispered. Sherlock ran a hand through John's hair and kissed his forehead, making note of the ache thudding away mercilessly in his own chest. _Shit_.

  
 _I looked up and saw your unruly hair_  
 _And the relentless shine of a solar flare_  
 _But you didn't have time to catch my stare_  
 _Before the silver stole you._

  
Sherlock pressed John further into his ribcage, tears stinging his own eyes. He understood.

"It wasn't your fault," he whispered into John's gold streaked hair.

John sobbed. "She's gone. I wish it had been me. It should have been me."

"It shouldn't have been either of you." A tear broke free and rolled down the bridge of Sherlock's nose. "I'm so sorry, John. I am so sorry."

John sucked in a few steadying breaths. He pulled away from Sherlock and turned his back to him, reaching for the Jameson and pouring it down the sink. "It means 'be here.' Callum and I did it together. A reminder to be present. A documentation that Harriet is gone. A promise to move forward." Sherlock watched him shake his head. "It's impossible to do when her death date is staring me in the face." He sat down on the couch and folded into himself. Sherlock brought a blanket and sat next to him. "I miss her."

He covered John in the blanket and pulled the man into his side. "I know, John. I know."

 

 

 

-

 

John stirred, his body sedated from a solid sleep. He breathed heavy through his nose and stretched his legs out on the sofa, taking time to feel the cotton around his toes and the flannel rubbing against his ankles. John opened his eyes and sat motionless as the gears of his head began clicking forward in slow motion. A tall glass of water was waiting for him on the coffee table. He grabbed it and downed two thirds in one go. Pushing the blanket from his bare chest, John sat upright on the sofa, resting his elbows on his knees as he combed through his now clean hair. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes as he shook his head. _I've gone and royally buggered this one up._

He slowly rose to his feet, black dots prickling softly at the edges of his vision. As John made his way into the kitchen to top off his glass, he heard movement from the bedroom. He hoped Sherlock was still here, still in this godforsaken, lonely as fuck flat. All John wanted was to see his face, to apologize for being such an insecure imbecile, _to tell him I need him_. He pressed the palm of his hand firmly to the scar on his left shoulder. It had been giving him more trouble than usual this week, but John was used to it. It always ached when he was in a bad place.

He shuffled to the bedroom where he found Sherlock kneeling and fooling with the auxiliary cables of John's stereo. John leaned against the doorframe and watched him. A calm flooded and settled warm and thick in his chest. It was lovely, for that dull and miserable ache to hide away so easily. Sherlock stood and pulled his phone from his pocket, connecting it to the aux cord now protruding from the system. Sherlock carded his hand through his hair as he scrolled through what John assumed was a playlist. John admired Sherlock's profile, prominent and alien in a lovely, foreign way. The audio bled through the speakers and John recognized it instantly. His heart thudded hard in his chest. He felt himself grin like an idiot.

"May I have this dance?" Sherlock asked before turning to face him. "Since I couldn't take you up on your offer before." He extended an elegant hand and John placed his rough palm inside Sherlock's. Sherlock's other hand found its place on the small of John's back, warm against his flesh. Their chests aligned, Sherlock tall and lean and smooth and John stocky, strong, and masculine. John rested his forehead against Sherlock's collarbone, eyes facing outward at the bedroom. It was dark, and it looked cold outside his window. Sherlock was singing softly in his ear.

_I feel we're close enough. Can I lock in your love?_

They danced together in a slow circling waltz. John could hear Sherlock's heart beating away, steady and deep.

"We were headed home from a concert," John said slowly, unsure of even the ground below his feet. He had spoken of this to no one, and the words felt heavy and tart in his mouth. "I bought us tickets to see Death Cab. They were for her birthday." He throat clenched; he breathed through his nose, determined to do this. "She had just turned twenty-four."

Sherlock remained silent, his heart moving the same as before, but John felt his hand press into his back, grounding him. _I've got you._

"She had told me a joke. I looked over to see her laughing. The window was down and her hair..." He envisioned Harriet's wild, blonde strands billowing around her face, catching in her eyelashes and lip gloss. She had the best smile. "Her hair was everywhere. The sun was behind her, which is why I didn't see the other car. It ran the stoplight. It plowed right into her." John felt a mixture of terror and relief: speaking of it was agony, but saying it out loud made it real. Someone else was sharing it with him. Someone else to help carry it, help understand it or make sense of it. "When I came to, I felt hands at my belt. We had been plowed and flipped. She was hanging there, caught... They pulled me out and laid me on a stretcher. The street was crimson. A thin, dark line." Sherlock kissed John's ear and hummed an affirmative noise. _I'm listening, but only if you want to continue. T_ he song began again. Sherlock had put it on repeat.

"They wouldn't let me see her. It wasn't until the next day they showed me the body. Her hair had turned scarlet. The back of her skull was just..."

"Gone," Sherlock murmured. John nodded into his shoulder, words becoming too difficult. "She was all you had left, wasn't she?" John bit his bottom lip hard, nodding again. The tears were gathering in his lashes.

"She was the only one I wanted, of the three. I thought I had saved us. That we could finally be normal," John whispered. "I walked away with a broken wrist and a gash along my leg."

Sherlock wrapped John's hand around his neck and then traced his fingers over John's scar. "Not this one, then."

"No," John said quietly.

"The aftermath?"

"Mmm."

"Another time, then."

John pulled away just enough to look Sherlock in the eye. He searched them a long time. He found no trace of fear or doubt, and very little pity. "Thank you."

"Anytime. Anything."

 

 

 

-

**I'm sorry, Jane. It's been a rough two weeks for me, but that doesn't excuse my being an inconsiderate prat. Dinner this week? I'll fill you in...**

_Well, fuck. There you are. Don't fret, boy. I just missed you. And yes, of course. Tell me where and when, and I'm all yours._

 

 

 

-

_John, I hope it's okay we gave Sherlock the key. We thought it would be best for him to see you..._

**Don't be sorry. He deserved to know. I'm grateful for you both, and I'm sorry for the trouble**.

_Don't be foolish. We adore you. You know this. Anything we can do?_

**No. I believe Sherlock has covered everything.**

_We thought he might. See you soon. Love you..._

**Love you back.**

 

 

 

-

Sherlock tucked the blankets around John. He lay sleeping in the middle of the bed. Sherlock perched on the window sill, drawing his knees up to his chest. The weather was finally growing warmer, and summer nights would be here in a few short months. A breeze swept in around his ankles. John stirred, and tucked his chin farther into his elbow.

He knew something had unfolded inside him that could not be cleanly put away again. There had been a time in his life when he would have walked away from someone with so much baggage, and without a second thought. He had a life of his own: a company to direct; music to compose; dancers to train; a foundation to build. Sherlock had never imagined he would be sitting on the sill of some man's window eagerly awaiting the next time he would be washed with John's voice or gifted the sound of his laughter.

John's words tumbled around in his mind. He imagined Harriet to be a great deal like Jane: someone gentle, loving, kind, strong. A woman with a fire in her eyes and ferocity in her heart. An overwhelming sense of "yes, this is me, hope that's quite alright. And sod off, if it's not." Someone with a good reading voice and when the sun hits their hair, it glitters like the sun and those eyes. Those oceanic, penetrating eyes. Harry would have been the female version of John.

Sherlock would have missed her, too.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Battement en Rond is one of the most difficult ballet moves to master. It's also completely gorgeous: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=n7AaZhEOJSY
> 
> Obviously Molly and Callum are very familiar with Harriet's death. More to come on the aftermath. 
> 
> John's tattoos have all been thought out (and drawn out). The draft is in an earlier chapter, should you wish to see it. He will continue documenting through our story as well. Also, I have no shame is representing all my fandoms. ;) 
> 
> Jameson is a delicious Irish whiskey I have been recently introduced to. I drink it neat, but even knowing my pacing, it can knock me on my ass sometimes. I imagine Watson wanting something to get the job done quickly when he is in a dark place. 
> 
> My Harriet is obviously quite different than the drunkard we have heard of in the show. Her and John were two years apart, and very close.


	15. Tessellate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **tessellate**  
>  _ˈtɛsɪˌleɪt_  
>  verb  
> 1\. (transitive) to construct, pave, or inlay with a mosaic of small tiles  
> 2\. (intransitive) (of identical shapes) to fit together exactly  
>   
> I am a **shitbag**. February was my last post? Seriously? There are no words for how sorry I am; all I will say is I am posting a new chapter so I will KEEP posting new chapters. I don't want to abandon this story, these boys, or you. I can't thank y'all enough for your sweet, kind, and motivating words during my several month hiatus.  
>   
>  This chapter is small, but it's a chapter and the important thing is that **I posted it.** I'm sorry it's not brilliant; it's moderately uneventful. But it's here. Please! Still love me!  
>   
>  Enjoy, you precious creatures, and know how much I have missed you.  
> xox  
> hamishh

"John!" She waved her hand high above the crowd of people. He turned at the sound of her voice and smiled. _He looks terrible._ She felt her eyebrows pull together on instinct and forced them to relax.

"Hello," John said as he wrapped his arms tight around her shoulders. Jane laced her arms around his middle and held him there. They rocked back and forth in a long embrace. He let her go and cupped her face in his hands. John's eyes were already red rimmed, and a small, embarrassed smile took over his mouth. "I'm sorry," he murmured quietly in the crowd.

She grabbed him again, kissing his shoulder. "Don't apologize." She released him and laced her arm through his. "Hungry?" Jane asked with a grin.

"Starved."

 

-

 

Sherlock found Molly and Soo Lin in the break room. Even as they nibbled over the last bits of a late breakfast, they sat discussing choreography. He smiled as he opened the door to the refrigerator and pulled out the remnants of his morning smoothie. He leaned against the counter, swirling the contents of his drink inside its cup.

Soo Lin stood and exited the room, gifting Sherlock a sweet grin on the way out. Molly gathered up the papers from the table and turned in her chair to face Sherlock. “How are you?” she asked timidly. She fidgeted with her tights, picking at the runs and fuzzes.

“Thank you. I’m fine. John’s fine.”

“Good,” she said with a small smile. “I’m sorry that we didn’t really explain the situation. You sort of went in blind.”

“I think it was necessary,” Sherlock murmured. “I would not have been fair with my judgment otherwise.” He took a swig of his smoothie and crossed his feet at the ankles, resting comfortably against the counter. “How is the choreography going with Soo Lin? Do you feel as though you are still compatible?”

Molly grinned and nodded. “Yes, she’s quite lovely. Very kind, and an attentive listener. She isn’t as quick a learner as I would have hoped, but she is making up for it in effort.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“You did a good job in your selection, Sherlock. I’m grateful. Thank you.”

Sherlock huffed a small laugh and shook his head. “I’m grateful we found her. Our selection was shameful.”

 

-

 

 _How are you feeling?_  
**I may have overdone it with the wine last night. Those reds you’ve been selecting really kick me in the pants.**  
_No headaches, I hope?_  
**No, no morning after symptoms. I just figured if I could manage whiskey neat, I could do two or three glasses of wine. Definitely not interchangeable.**  
_No. Most alcoholic beverages aren’t…_  
**Yeah, yeah. I know.**  
Thank you for last night. Dinner was lovely. As was your company.  
_No need to thank me. It’s my pleasure._  
My pillows still smell like you. :)  
**Sure it wasn’t Dex and Dez? They smell awfully nice for two, wild pups.**  
_Yes. Quite sure._

 

_-_

 

There was a soft knock on John’s door. He had insisted Sherlock just keep the spare, but being the gentleman he was, Sherlock had politely refused. John’s breath caught in his chest as Sherlock stepped inside the foyer. His mouth pulled into a small smile. John was still waiting for the day his heart would get used to the elegant sod standing in front of him.

“John,” Sherlock murmured against his ear. John hummed a contented sound.

“I wasn’t expecting you so early. I thought you were rehearsing.” Pink spread across Sherlock’s cheeks, the color giving away his embarrassment. John soaked in the vision, becoming more and more rare the better they got to know one another.

“Yes, well. I was thinking. Do you have plans for the weekend?”

John chewed at the inside of his lip in contemplation before shaking his head. “No, I don’t think I’ve anything on. Why?”

Sherlock’s hand cupped the side of John’s face. He was being incredibly affectionate, and while John wasn’t complaining in the slightest, it was still...odd. “Would you like to take a trip with me?”

John raised a curious eyebrow. “A trip? That sounds lovely, but can you afford to get away right now?”

Sherlock bent down and placed a tender kiss on John’s mouth. “Yes. And I know just the place.” Sherlock swept into John’s bedroom and stood, waiting, but what for, John didn’t know.

“Yes?” he asked, an amused expression playing across his lips.

“Well. Pack your things then.”

“Now?” He felt his eyebrows rocket high on his face. “But it’s mid-afternoon on a Thursday.”

“Never a better time,” Sherlock replied, a smirk playing across his mouth. “Come on, then.”

 

-

 

 _Oh just shoot me. These kids are wild._  
**Oy. Spring holiday IS coming up…**  
_In three weeks, Watson. Not nearly long enough for them to be behaving like this._  
**So button them up, Jesep.**  
_Sigh. Easy for you to say. You aren’t only six years older than them…_  
**Was that a slight on my age?**  
_Never, as you only have three years on me. That’s not what I meant and you know it._  
**On planning, then?**  
_Yes, thankfully a breath. I had two cups of coffee this morning and I still can’t get my ass in gear. Miss you. What are you up to this weekend?_  
**Yes, well, Sherlock just informed me we’re taking a trip. And we’re leaving now, apparently.** __  
Oh, you lucky bastard.  
**My thoughts exactly.**  
_Where are you going?_  
**No idea.**  
_Oh, I hate you. Sherlock is so romantic._  
**And B isn’t?**  
_No, he is._  
**Then no need to complain. Am I right?**  
_Yeah. Maybe._  
**Two word responses. You’re making me nervous.**  
_We’ll talk when you get back. Have a wonderful time!_  
**Jane…**  
_I’m fine, John. Really. We’ll chat later._  
**I’ll hold you to it.**  
_As I would expect._

  
-

 

“Sherlock. What the _hell_ is this?” John stood gaping at the luxury sports vehicle parked in the lower level of Sherlock’s flat, which, until just now, John had not even known existed. The car was gorgeous, silver in color, perhaps clear-coated aluminium, her back one, long smooth line flowing into a set of haunches, where wide metal wheels sat inside widely stretched tires. It was sexy; it was extravagant; it was absolutely excessive. John aimed his wide eyes at the man loading up his bags in the hatch. 

“It’s a method of transportation, John. What else would you believe it to be?”

John huffed a disbelieving laugh. “Yes. But Sherlock. This is a PhoeniX. It’s a Saab sports car. What are _you_ doing with something so…”

“Believe it or not, I am guilty of indulging in finer things, even if only on occasion. Shall we?” He slid into the front seat, the bay door opening wide and allowing the sun to pour in, turning the leather interior a matte black. John, nervous to even touch the door handle, carefully followed Sherlock’s example. The car cranked and hummed, her sounds a nearly silent whir of pistons. A stupid grin captured John’s mouth, and Sherlock winked before pulling out into the street.

John ran his fingertips along the curve of the seat, the quilted stitches silky against his callouses. The wind swept in through the windows, and John watched as it picked up Sherlock’s curls and sent them dancing wildly about his face. The man was a vision in any scenario. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” he asked quietly, relishing the look of excitement on his boyfriend’s face.

“No. But I will tell you it isn’t too far a drive. Are you comfortable?” Sherlock snuck a sideways smirk over to John, his expression smug. John rolled his eyes.

“Yes. Quite, thank you.” He placed his right hand on Sherlock’s thigh, his thumb rubbing loving circles through the expensive fabric.

Soon, they were out of London and curving through the countryside. John rested his skull against the seat and closed his eyes, enjoying the smell of warmer weather and freshly blooming flora. Only months before, he had been driving through the rolling hills of Ireland, the idea of Sherlock only a fleeting and illogical fantasy. He squeezed Sherlock’s knee. The handsome brunette wrapped his free fingers around John’s and returned the gesture.

After about an hour’s drive, Sherlock flipped his blinker and pulled into a long drive. The pavement was lined with large, blossoming trees, the lawn well-kept and freshly mowed. It reminded John of a golfing green. Soon, a stately house rose at the top of the hill. It was mostly brick, regal but understated with large leaf ivy crawling up the corners. The front door was solid black, and the windows stood out against the old pale pink of the estate. John could see light curtains hanging on the inside of each pane. “What is this place?” John murmured, taken aback by its Pride and Prejudice feel.

“Welcome to my home, John.”

 

-

 

Jane tapped out the last few sentences of an email. She swiped a tear from her right eye. There was a knock at the door; she groaned inwardly, not wanting human interaction on her already brief planning period. Reluctantly, she went to the door, and smiled at Dr. Phillips waving through the tiny window.

“Dr. Phillips. Hi.” Jane allowed the door to swing open and invited him in. “Would you like a cuppa? I just made one with my new Kuerig. Clever little thing, it is.”

“Certainly, Ms. Jesep. That would be lovely.” She watched as her administrator took a seat at the end of one of her student tables, his height looming even in a sitting position. She walked back into the supply room and found another clean mug. Jane stood over the Kuerig, idly picking at the hem of her shirt. She heard a small rustling of feet near her. Startled, she gave a small yelp and turned to see Dr. Phillips, waiting hesitantly by the door. His eyes were wide and kind, concern evident on his slightly aged face. He was a handsome man, so gentle in demeanor. “Alright there, Jane?” he asked in a quiet question.

She felt the tears blossom before she could have any say so. She stood there awkwardly, unsure of her voice and knowing if she spoke, she would only cry more. Dr. Phillips pulled her into his chest and held her as she shook. He patted her hair and squeezed her tight to him. “It’s going to be okay, Jane. I know.” Her arms were folded up between their chests.

“It isn’t fair,” she said in a broken whisper. “How can he be gone? He was here yesterday. Sitting just there.” Dr. Phillips rubbed her back tenderly. “He was such a gentleman. At least for me.” He let her go and took a step back, grabbing the cup of black tea from the Keurig.

“Would you like me to attend the service with you?” It was a simple question, something several people might offer without actually intending to follow through. “Because you know I will.” Yes, she did know that. 

Jane walked slowly back into her classroom, her administrator trailing behind her. They both sipped on their tea. “Thank you, Dr. Phillips, but I don’t think that will be necessary.” They lingered in the middle of her room, the smell of earl grey blending in with traces of bleach.

“I am so sorry, Jane. Truly. If you need anything, you know I’m right across the hall.” He extended a hand to squeeze her shoulder.

“Take the tea with you, if you like. I’ll come by later to pick up the mug.” They exchanged small smiles and he left the room, closing the door with a soft click behind him.

 

-

 

 _What can I get for you, sweetheart? Talenti? Sea Salt and Caramel?_  
**I love you, Mols. Nothing for me. Not right now. Not quite sure how to deal with this.**  
_I don’t want to say we know how you feel, but trust me. We know how you feel. Just… don’t be alone too long._ ****  
Understood. Just for tonight, I think. To get it out of my system. __  
Okay, my love. We are here if you need us. John, too.  
**I know, darling. Thank you. Kisses.**  
_Lots of love._

_-_

 

John stood on the cobblestone drive. Sherlock dropped their bags between them and covered his eyes to shield them from the sun. He looked to John and then back to the house, a grin taking over his mouth. He admired the profile of a warm-blooded Watson, his blue eyes wide and disbelieving. Warm-blooded was a good term for John. He was welcoming in every way Sherlock wasn’t. 

“This is your home?” John asked, breathless.

“Yes. Would you like to come in?” Sherlock chuckled at how quickly John’s eyebrow darted upward on his forehead.

“I would surely hope you’d invite me in after driving me all this way.” He gave Sherlock a firm pat on the arse as if to shoo him along. “Go on, then. After you.” John snagged the bags and followed Sherlock through the front door.

The foyer was flooded with light, tiny prisms reflecting on the walls through an older crystal chandelier hanging from highly vaulted ceilings. A study was to the left, filled with dark cherry wood and lined with shelves of books, hundreds of them, maybe thousands. From leather bound anthologies to _The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo_. To the right was a parlor of sorts that appeared to be hardly used. It dawned on John that Sherlock likely never had company here. He trailed Sherlock further into the house. Down the hall they met the kitchen. It was large and open, white ceramic tile covering all the countertops and serving as a backsplash. A warm grey met the pale tile and made the big space welcoming, even in its vastness.

John wasn’t sure what he had expected. He hadn’t expected anything, to be honest; he wasn’t informed they were going to be coming here. A comforting feeling sank into his skin at the realization. He knew something in Sherlock had shifted and clicked into a new position in order to bring John to his home.

John dropped the bags to the floor and pressed Sherlock against the counter. A look of surprise stole Sherlock’s mouth and his harder, grey eyes. John kissed him, pinned him to the cabinetry, and Sherlock let his fingers curl into the thick fabric of John’s denims.

“You brought me here,” John murmured against Sherlock’s open mouth, planting a small kiss on his lower lip.

“Yes. I did, in fact.” Sherlock let his other hand follow the curve of John’s arse and slide into his back pocket.

“That makes me special, then. Doesn’t it, Mr. Holmes?” John put the smallest amount of distance between the two of them. He ran his thumb along the smooth edges of Sherlock’s jaw and stood up on the balls of his feet to place a tender kiss on his forehead.

“I do believe you have become my exception, John Watson. I’ve been a poor host. Would you like to see the rest of the estate?” Sherlock slipped out from under John’s body and cast him a devious grin as he made his way toward the back end of the house. John smirked, left the bags where they sat on the hardwood floors, and followed.

 

-

 

Jane shut her door and toed off her Chucks, her wool socks warm from walking from the Tube. She dropped her satchel next to the red suede sofa and headed straight into the kitchen. As Jane eyed the tea selection in her cabinet, a weird, sick feeling twisted in her stomach. She didn’t actually want to be alone tonight, but she also didn’t want to be around people who knew her too well. She wanted to enjoy company without being made to feel pitied, or being worried over. She dug her cell from her coat pocket and dialed B, hoping he was in for the evening.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang. B didn’t answer. She ended the call, sighed, and dialed again. After four failed attempts, she slammed the cabinet door shut and grabbed the Makers from the top of the fridge. “Of all the times to not answer your fucking mobile, B,” she muttered as she changed into a pair of TARDIS pajamas, taking a swig of whiskey between each article of clothing shed and replaced.

An hour and a half later, she heard her phone ring. She hummed along with the score for the Star Trek original series. Jane didn’t answer. Ten minutes later, it rang again. She groaned, loud and annoyed, as she swayed her way into the kitchen, where her phone was buzzing against the counter-tops. She picked it up and placed it to her ear.

“’ullo?”

“Jane, are you alright?”

“Thanks for deciding to return my call.” She was angry. A tiny voice in the back of Jane’s mind reminded her that Sam’s death had nothing at all to do with B. She told the voice to fuck off.

“I’m sorry. I had that dinner at the orphanage tonight. Remember?” A light wash of guilt flooded her, but not enough to steal away the bitterness.

“I didn’t,” she replied honestly. She had far more on her mind than dinner at the orphanage. The line went quiet for a few minutes.

“Have you been drinking?” B wasn’t being ugly, not exactly. Condescending may have been a more appropriate term.

“Yes.” Jane was quickly beginning to realize she didn’t want his company after all. Would he understand? “Sam was killed last night,” she blurted, her voice already cracking.

“I’m sorry, Jane. Who is Sam?” She felt heat rise to her cheeks as a wave of unnecessary fury consumed her. She knew better than to drink like this. She knew B wouldn’t understand because B barely knew her. And rarely ever asked anything.

“It’s no one. Listen, I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up before he could respond and placed the whiskey bottle back atop the refrigerator where it belonged.

 

-

 

 **I love you, Jane. I am so sorry I’m not there with you tonight.**  
**No one understands what this feels like. It is the most isolating thing in the world. You want to be alone, but you don’t. You want to talk to someone, but you have no idea what the hell to say. You want to run from it and you want to face it.**  
Sam loved you. And appreciated you. You were the one person in his life that loved him back. You saw everything in him no one else would ever dare to look for.  
Remember that.  
_I llve yuo._  
**I know. I’m coming with you Monday evening. No arguments.** ****  
_Ok_

 

-

 

John sat perched on a bar stool at the island in the center of the kitchen, smiling at the sizzling and popping happening on the stove in front of him. Sherlock sucked a spare bit of homemade pesto from his thumb and wiped his fingertips on the dish towel slung over his shoulder. His shirt was two buttons open rather than the normal one, his hair curling a bit more from the steam of the pasta cooking. John rested his chin in his palm and admired Sherlock as he worked.

Everything Sherlock made was delicious, but John thoroughly enjoyed observing him in _this_ environment, familiar with where everything was, watching him slice the basil and make his measurements without a single proper unit of measurement. Ambient jazz was playing from the den and John felt completely at ease.

“May I set the table?” John asked, voice airy and relaxed.

“Yes, put yourself to good use. Dishes are in the far right cabinet, above the counter.” The stool whined as John pushed it back and made to set their dishes. After, he joined Sherlock at the stove, wrapping his arms around his waist and nestling his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Do we have dessert?” John whispered quietly against Sherlock’s ear, his nose tracing Sherlock’s jaw.

Sherlock turned and kissed John fervently. John grinned at the realization he wanted to devour him. Maybe even whole.

“Yes, we very well do, don’t we?” John murmured against Sherlock’s mouth. He felt the full lips shift into a smile against his, and they kissed again before opening a bottle of wine.

 

-

 

Jane sat on her sofa flipping through Netflix. She wanted to watch something new, but was aware that it wasn’t likely she would feel better by doing so. Jane knew what her quick fixes were, and tonight that’s what she needed: to sober up, and to shed happy tears. She wandered into the kitchen and pulled out a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough, poured a half glass of milk, and settled back onto the couch before picking a Tennant season of Doctor Who. She’d watch as many as she needed to in order to right herself again. Even if it meant eating an entire container of cookie dough before she got there.

Her phone was buzzing from the kitchen, but she ignored it. In a tiny place in the back of her mind, she knew this was best for her. To be alone. All her life she had been with someone, never because she felt she _had_ to be, but because she loved company. B was a great guy, there was no denying. But how long would she continue to see people without knowing what she wanted from them? What she deserved from them? Should she feel so flattered that someone would pour her a glass of wine and cook her dinner? Shouldn't anyone want to do that for her? She was kind. She was intelligent, gentle, encouraging, moderately attractive. A little high-strung sure, and she had entire conversations with herself, but that doesn't take anything away from her, or the fact that she deserved a good love. A big love. She shouldn't feel the need to grovel at their feet; Jane didn't need to say she was sorry, didn't need to make excuses for the quirky habits she had, didn't need to justify that she was worth keeping, didn't need to say thank you to someone for doing what any decent human being who gave a shit would do. It was time to stop settling and start exploring what it was she loved, who she wanted to be, and what she wanted in a partner. She knew she couldn’t fool herself any longer. It was time to become reacquainted with a woman she’d grown up hardly knowing: herself.

So she let the phone ring, turned the volume on the telly up, and watched the Doctor and Rose save the world, every single time.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
> As Lovers Go - Dashboard Confessional  
> January Rain - David Gray  
> In Your Atmosphere - John Mayer  
> Pinch Me - Barenaked Ladies  
> 


	16. *breathing

More to come... For all my amazing readers, thank you for staying kind and staying positive. So much has happened in the course of a year, I'm better for it, but I think it's time we return to our boys. Don't you? 

The game is on!


	17. Quiddity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **quid·di·ty**  
>  ˈkwidədē/  
>  _noun_  
>   
>  the inherent nature or essence of someone or something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's hardly worth mentioning.  
> But it's alive. More coming. I solemnly swear  
> [that I'm up to no good.]

John sat facing Sherlock, nestled comfortably into the worn, leather sofa of the den. He watched Sherlock’s face as his boyfriend told the story of how he came to inherit the estate rather than his Parliamentary brother, Mycroft. What kind of name was Mycroft, anyhow? Then again… Sherlock wasn’t any less odd. 

He loves that Sherlock speaks twice as fast when he’s excited, the way his eyebrows launch upwards on his face and his voice changes when he is trying to recreate a pompous big brother, the large, sweeping hand gestures as he finally reaches the climax of the story, and his chuckle at the recollection of it all. Sherlock was an artist. Not just in his many incredible gifts, no. But in his very existence. At the core of his being, Sherlock’s life was a work of art. His character, his demeanor, his love and play of language and his careful interactions with everything and everyone that surrounds him. He chooses every day to be a man in search of more from this life, never settling or succumbing to the expectations of those that believe their opinion to be of the utmost importance. 

As Sherlock turned with a small smile on his face, his eyes alight with comfort, glee, and something else, something twinkling and absolutely perfect, John knew. He leaned forward into Sherlock’s space, one hand touching those feathersoft curls and the other resting gently on Sherlock’s cheek, and he kissed him. 

He may have interrupted the story - may have cut Sherlock off mid-sentence, and yes, in most circumstances that would be very poor manners at best but it doesn’t matter because Sherlock is a work of art. John will look at him every day and find something new to admire, something new to be moved by, something new to surprise him, frighten him, engulf him, absolutely consume him. 

Because that’s what you do when you love someone. Right? You let everything in.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is devoted to and inspired by my amazing friend, mollyloo. She's served as both a muse and a sounding board for this story. She's my counterpart in our love of John and Sherlock, and understands my need for them like no other. She is a creative genius all on her own, and my work is so much better when she takes part in it. Thanks, sugar. You're perfect. She may also include some of her incredible artwork to assist in our visual needs throughout the story (if we are so wonderfully lucky). <3


End file.
